A Spot of Trouble
by Meercat
Summary: [COMPLETE] Hogan and the boys race to save one of their own from torture at the hands of the enemy. Chapter 19 up-how it all ends.
1. Chapter 1

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

SUMMARY: Hogan and the boys race to save one of their own from torture at the hands of the enemy.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrestled with myself whether this should be PG-13 or R. Some of the scenes might be considered intense enough for the harsher rating. I have read most of the fic posted on Many others who write in this fandom share my opinion--despite the high jinks of the original show, these men were at war. And in war, bad things happen to good people.

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own. If you haven't yet read their Game Universe stories, run don't walk. They are awesome!

Chapter 1

Colonel Robert Hogan, Senior POW of Luft Stalag 13, hated nothing more than sending one of his men on a solo mission. A man alone, especially an Allied soldier supposedly restricted to the confines of the POW camp, was at constant risk, not only from chance patrols but also locals who either supported or feared the forces of the Third Reich. Such a soldier, caught out of uniform, would most likely be shot as a spy. At the very least, he would lose the dubious protection of the Geneva Convention.

Hogan's men ran that risk almost every single night. Tonight would be no exception.

Each of the Colonel's inner circle had some role to play in their underground organization--roles both professional and, for Hogan, personal. Ivan Kinchloe had earned his place as the Colonel's 2IC--the tall black American was Hogan's silent strength. Peter Newkirk could con a squirrel out of its last nut--the British non-com was Hogan's earthy side, fast thoughts on dancing feet, sneaky and cynical. Louis LeBeau had but to wave a steaming casserole under someone's nose to cast away all suspicions--the cocky little Frenchman symbolized Hogan's passion for life. Andrew Carter, the youngest in the group, was a chemical wizard who could turn boiling water into anything he desired, be it sedative or explosive. In all other matters, sadly, he was a total klutz. He was Hogan's innocence, and he was going out tonight into danger. Alone.

"Let me go with him, _mon Colonél_," LeBeau pleaded. "I can be a second pair of eyes for him. I am so small, no one would see me, _n'es pa?_"

"What's the matter, Louie?" Carter snapped, his fair face clearly showing hurt at the perceived mistrust. "Don't you think I can handle it?"

"Of course you can, _mon ami_, but why must you handle it alone? It is no reflection on you. I would ask to go with anyone in this same situation . . . even Newkirk!"

"'ere." Peter Newkirk backhanded the little Frenchman's shoulder.

"_Colonél-_"

"For the tenth and last time, LeBeau, no." He did not say it aloud, but his unspoken _If anyone goes with him, it will be me_ hung heavy in the close, still air of the underground tunnel. "Hochstetter is in camp for the night. He'll be watching me like a hawk, and I wouldn't put it past him to keep me up until the wee hours just to make my life difficult. On top of that, Klink has ever so graciously volunteered you as cook and Newkirk as waiter for dinner tonight. Kinch needs to man the radio. That leaves only one of us who won't draw suspicion by being missing. Carter goes alone."

He tried to smile away everyone's concern.

"Think of it this way," Hogan said. "How could we possibly be blamed for tonight's explosions with Hochstetter himself providing our alibi? It will be the perfect chance to get the squinty-eyed little dung beetle off our backs for a while. Carter, you know what to do. Blow the depot and get back here. No stopping off for a beer at the Haus Brau." He wagged a finger in front of Carter's nose. "And no dallying with a pretty fraulein. Save that for your next R & R."

"Aww, Colonel, you take all the fun out of it."

Hogan studied his youngest soldier with critical eye for detail. Carter had dressed entirely in black, from his knit cap to his tight-fitted jacket to his half boots. A full tool belt complete with knife, sidearm, and extra ammunition hugged his narrow hips, while a bulging backpack carried the components necessary for the night's activities. Paint or cloth hid every inch of bright metal or fair skin.

"Just do the job and get back here in one piece."

"I won't let you down, sir."

Hogan swallowed his misgivings and broke protocol long enough to squeeze the younger man's shoulder. He added a gentle pat to the side of Carter's neck, careful not to smear the loam paint.

"I know you won't, Andrew. I expect you back here by eleven."

"You can count on me, Colonel Hogan, sir."

"Off you go." _No. Don't send him out there alone._

Sgt. Carter shouldered his backpack and disappeared up the tunnel toward the camp's southern exit. Rob Hogan watched him leave. Every instinct screamed against letting the boy out alone, yet what choice did he have? The depot, a German way station one mile outside of Hammelburg, housed a dozen trucks filled with ordnance--incendiary and shrapnel bombs en route from southern factories to airfields in northern Germany and occupied France. Each bomb, if allowed to move on, would eventually add to the blitzkrieg of London. By tomorrow night, the trucks would travel beyond their reach. To save hundreds of innocent lives, the way station had to go up before dawn tomorrow. Of them all, only Carter had the freedom and expertise to do the job.

That knowledge brought cold comfort.


	2. Chapter 2

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

SUMMARY: Hogan and the boys race to save one of their own from torture at the hands of the enemy.

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own. If you haven't yet read their Game Universe stories, run don't walk. They are awesome!

Chapter 2

Andrew Carter hunkered down in the heavy shadows at the base of a gnarly oak tree and breathed a sigh of relief. His job was done, the bombs set. The colonel would be proud of him--in and out past the guards without a single mistake. The German soldiers were too busy sharing cigarettes and gossip to worry about doing their jobs. What danger could there be this deep inside Germany?

It hadn't been difficult to wire up each truck. The center one would go first. The chain reaction would take out all twelve vehicles, the buildings, and everything else inside the way station's barbed wire fence. Thank goodness the depot was well outside of town. He might not have been able to do the job otherwise. The explosions would be powerful enough to take out five square blocks and blast a hole 30 feet deep in the ground.

With time, distance, and a span of unbroken forest between himself and his target, Carter took a moment to relax. The adrenaline rush of immediate danger faded. He wobbled inside, his muscles limp and quivery. He felt lightheaded with relief and giddy with success. Now if only the bombs go off on schedule--

The sky pulsed with a burst of light, like a giant flash bulb. The air throbbed around him. Overhead, leaves rustled and trees swayed as though pushed from behind. A hot, artificial wind replaced the cool, gentle night breeze. A distant _whump_ preceded an even stronger vibration of air. The ground rippled beneath his feet. A new scent tainted the air around him, of spent explosives and superheated metal.

Carter couldn't resist a victory dance. He hopped and wiggled and punched the air with a fist. Far behind him, the overcast sky took on a scarlet haze laced with mustard gold that mirrored the tremendous inferno on the ground. Secondary explosions rumbled across the landscape as ordnance within the depot reacted to the tremendous heat. Beneath the explosions, he heard the warbling drone of air raid sirens.

For a demolitions expert, there was no finer music.

HH

"What was that noise?"

Around the dining room of the camp Kommandant, various people reacted to the distant explosions in different ways. Colonel Wilhelm Klink, Kommandant of Luft Stalag 13, bounced in his chair hard enough to dislodge his monocle. The Gestapo Major, Wolfgang Hochstetter, blurted out a Prussian curse and stiffened in his seat. Sergeant of the Guard Hans Shultz, on duty within the kommandant's personal quarters, came to attention and firmed his grip on his rifle. Only Hogan, LeBeau, and Newkirk continued what they were doing.

His expression at its most innocent, Hogan leaned across the table to pour more wine into Hochstetter's glass.

"What noise might that be, sir?"

Hochstetter scowled. The Gestapo officer shoved back his chair with a harsh wood-on-wood screech, to which Hogan gave an exaggerated grimace.

"You mean that noise, sir? It was your chair on the floor. Rather like fingernails on a chalkboard, wouldn't you agree, sir?"

With a low growl, Hochstetter threw down his napkin and glowered across the table at the senior American prisoner.

"You know precisely what noise, Colonel Hogan."

Newkirk, one arm cricked to hold a folded white dishtowel, moved the white lace curtains of Colonel Klink's dining room window and pointed outside. "Maybe it has something to do with that. Judging by the glow, I'd say something's on fire."

"Glow?" Klink parroted. "Fire?"

Hochstetter and Klink jostled one another in an effort to get a clear view from the window. Shultz, far taller than the two senior officers, looked out over their heads. Hogan hooked a finger around the barrel of Shultz's rifle and aimed it away from Klink's back.

Far beyond the barbed wire and guard patrols, beyond the trees that surrounded the camp, a red and yellow glow reflected off the overcast night sky. The light flickered and brightened in broken synchronicity with the distant rumbles of explosions.

Inside the camp, guard dogs barked and paced their kennels. Armed sentries milled about, alerted by the distant explosions and unnerved by the false daylight, while spotlights from every watchtower crisscrossed the compound in search of prisoners bent on escape. Being after 9:00 p.m. curfew, no lights came on in any of the prisoners' barracks, but the swinging searchlights showed vague shadows in almost every window and doorway. Distant rumbles, like the threat of summer thunder, made the windowpanes hum.

The Gestapo officer wheeled around and glared daggers at the senior POW.

"Colonel Hogan, you had something to do with this!"

"_Me!_" Hogan laid his hand across his chest, fingers splayed. "Sir, it pains me to think you suspect me. Why, I'd even say my feelings have been hurt. How could I possibly be responsible when I have spent the entire evening in such charming company? _Your_ company, I might add."

"Colonel Hogan has a point, Major," Klink said. "He has been in this room the entire night. Hasn't stepped out, not even once. Even if what you suspect is true--though it is preposterous--_Hogan_, a _saboteur_?--_phfft!_--he could not possibly have done anything under our very noses."

"BAH!" Hochstetter jammed his helmet on his head and stomped out of Klink's quarters. He yelled back over his shoulder, "KLINK! Unlock your office. I will use your phone to call Headquarters."

"But he didn't finish his dinner," Louis LeBeau moaned even as the camp Kommandant trotted after Hochstetter, a white square of napkin still dangling from the neck of his uniform shirt, "and after I spent hours and hours slaving over a hot stove."

"Don't worry, little cockroach." Sgt. Shultz patted LeBeau on the back in awkward sympathy. Despite the big German's attempts at gentleness, he still staggered the smaller man. "I--we--appreciate your cooking."


	3. Chapter 3

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

SUMMARY: Hogan and the boys race to save one of their own from torture at the hands of the enemy.

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own. If you haven't yet read their Game Universe stories, run don't walk. They are awesome!

Chapter 3

Except for the occasional skitter of wind-blown leaves and rustling tree branches, the forest around Stalag 13 was silent. Andrew Carter settled his pack more securely between his shoulders and darted to the next area of shadow. This close to the tree stump tunnel entrance, it would be so easy to become careless. A single moment of unguarded attention could unravel two years' worth of covert operations.

Colonel Hogan's words from Carter's first mission briefing stayed in the forefront of his thoughts: _You're not safe until you're back in your bunk. _He was so very close to being back in Barracks Two, only a half-hour away, but he would not--could not--let himself become careless.

A twig snapped.

Carter dropped to the forest floor. He waited, not daring to move, not even to blow away a moldy leaf that tickled his cheek. He forced himself to breathe slowly--in through the nose, out through the mouth. The urge to hold his breath for that little bit of extra silence threatened to overpower him. Night dew soaked into his clothes.

Movement. There, to the right.

Carter eased forward three inches, enough to poke a viewing hole beneath a small bush. In a raised clearing some twenty feet beyond, silhouetted against the fiery sky and hazy with the night's first wisps of fog, stood a soldier armed with a rifle. The dishpan helmet marked him as German.

Cold dread tickled the American's spine. Carter licked his lips and refused to shiver. He held perfectly still except for a slight head turn to look around. Where one soldier patrolled, there would be others. The stray light that revealed them could easily spotlight his own position. His survival and the secrecy of Papa Bear's operation depended on him spotting the remaining Germans before they saw him.

The soldier in the clearing waved. Carter followed the gesture. At first he saw only shadows and movement that could be trees or shrubs as easily as men. After several seconds, something stirred against the wind. A beam of moonlight broke through the clouds to reflect off metal buckles. He'd pinpointed a second soldier's position. From there, Carter quickly located the third.

All three Germans were behind him, between him and the exploded depot. Their attention centered more on the distant fire and explosions than on their patrol duties. Hard as he looked, he saw no one between him and camp. With just a smidgen of good luck, he could slip away without being spotted.

Carter rose up enough to unbuckle the backpack straps. He hid the pack under the shrub and added a pile of forest mulch to further conceal the cloth. He wanted so badly to unsnap his holster and withdraw the Luger. The feel of the butt in his hand would be a great comfort. Still, escape was more important than confronting an enemy that outnumbered him three-to-one.

"_Alarm!_"

The cry went up to one side. A fourth German appeared to his left, waving wildly and calling for his companions.

Stealth was no longer an issue--Carter ducked and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. A rifle fired, its round missing by a wide margin. A second shot passed close enough to rip the sleeve of his jacket. A narrow limb ahead of him flew off, cut from its branch by the bullet.

Carter vaulted a downed tree trunk. Bullets struck the far side, throwing fragments of wood and moss into the air. Behind its momentary shelter, he grabbed a deep breath and studied every possible escape route. If he hugged the tree line to his right, he just might make it back to the tunnel entrance in time to escape detection. The American scampered in that direction.

Within ten feet, the ground vanished from beneath him. Carter did his best to control the fall, turning the wild tumble into a tight roll. He hit the bottom of the ravine after only three turns.

Carter unholstered his Luger and thumbed the safety. A quick look around and he was off. He rabbitted down the narrow, winding ravine, the remains of a dry creek bed.

"_Halt! Auslieferung oder ich schießen! (Surrender or I will shoot!) _"

The American dove for the scant cover of the ravine wall. Draped in weak shadows, cloaked in fog, he looked back to see an enemy soldier leaning over the edge of the gorge, searching for his lost quarry. The German yelled to his companions and brought up his rifle. Even as Carter stared straight down the rifle barrel, his arm snapped up, pure training and reflex. The Luger fired once. The German made a wet, gagging sound, dropped the rifle, clutched his throat, and fell to the ground.

The German's thrashing peaked and waned until, with a final gurgle, he fell deathly still.

Carter shivered in physical shock. _I killed him. I killed him. Shake it off, boy. But I killed him. You heard me--shake it off! The colonel's counting on you. Gotta move. Gotta get back to camp. Gotta move._

He couldn't stay in the ravine. The shouting and shooting would draw the remaining members of the patrol and every other German soldier within miles. If they penned him there, it would be like shooting a duck in a pond.

Carter struggled over the rim of the gorge back onto level land. In his frenzied haste, his foot slipped on a patch of dew-moist leaves. Arms windmilled madly as he fought to hold his balance. One of the Germans darted forward and slammed the butt of his rifle against the base of Carter's skull.

The American grunted once and collapsed. 


	4. Chapter 4

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

Chapter 4

"Escort the prisoners back to the barracks, Sergeant." Wolfgang Hochstetter yanked on his great coat and belted it against the night chill. In the yard before him, the major's aide leaped from behind the wheel, pulled opened the rear passenger door of his staff car, and snapped to attention. "And make certain they are here when I get back. I will have words with them, especially with Colonel Hogan, tomorrow."

Sergeant Schultz slid a sideways glance toward Colonel Klink. When the camp Kommandant voiced no objection to the Gestapo officer's order, Schultz saluted and herded the three prisoners off the porch.

Colonel Hogan couldn't resist a final dig. Giving his trademark two-finger salute, he said, "Thank you for the wonderful dinner, Kommandant Klink. Too bad the evening had to end so soon." The salute turned into a childish finger waggle. "And it was so good seeing you again, Major. Do come again anytime."

"Schultz, get him out of heeeeeeere," Klink whined even as he waved the party toward Barracks Two.

The spotlight from the nearest tower swiveled to follow the guard and three prisoners. As he strolled across the compound, thumbs hooked on the pockets of his bomber jacket, Hogan felt Major Hochstetter's beady little eyes follow them until they disappeared into their quarters and Schultz pulled the door closed behind them.

Once secure in the privacy of their barracks, the three men fell into snicker fits.

"Did you see ol' Wolfgang's face when the bombs went off?" Newkirk asked. "Ruddy beautiful."

"Hochstetter, _non_," LeBeau countered. "What about Klink? I thought he would swallow his monocle!"

Hogan joined on the laughter until he glanced over and spotted Carter's empty bunk. Reminded of the mission, he walked over to Kinch's bunk and gave it a hard rap on the side. The bed tilted up, revealing the trap door from the barracks down into the tunnel system.

"I'm going below. You guys get to bed. Tomorrow's going to get here soon enough."

The colonel climbed down into the stifling warmth of the underground tunnel, foregoing the last three rungs of the ladder. He tugged his flight jacket back into a straight line even as he hurried to the radio room. Ivan Kinchloe sat at the machine, one headphone pressed against an ear, the other resting on his shoulder.

"Hochstetter just left," the senior POW crowed, his voice heavy with false sympathy. "Poor man spent so much time on the phone to Gestapo Headquarters that he didn't even get a chance to finish his dinner. Seems there's been a terrible explosion--ordnance storage, I believe." The colonel looked around the room. "Where's Carter?"

"Not back yet, sir," Kinch said as he fine-tuned the frequency. "I've been monitoring the German radio frequencies just in case. Best I can tell, they think the explosion was an accident. Nothing yet about sabotage."

Hogan looked at his watch--12:34 a.m. 0034 hours.

"The depot went up right at 2130," Hogan muttered to himself. "If he set the explosives on timers like we planned, he should have been back by now. Where can that boy be?"

"He's only 90 minutes late, Colonel," Kinch said. "Maybe he had to detour or lay low to avoid a patrol."

_Or maybe he's been captured._ Hogan refused to say it aloud.


	5. Chapter 5

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

SUMMARY: Hogan and the boys race to save one of their own from torture at the hands of the enemy. It gets darker from this point forward.

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own. If you haven't yet read their Game Universe stories, run don't walk. They are awesome!

Chapter 5

Cold. Had Peter stolen his blanket again? That wasn't very nice of him. Colonel Hogan, sir, make him give it back.

Hay. Mold, damp, and rot. The rank stench filled his nostrils and clogged the back of his throat. His bunk didn't smell that bad, did it? Louie would have complained by now if it did.

Voices. That didn't sound like the colonel. Or any of his other barracks buddies. What were they saying?

Carter moaned and rolled onto his side. He roused enough to note the bite of metal bands around his wrists. Steel cuffs bound his hands together in front. He opened his eyes and blinked against the harsh yellow glare of a kerosene lantern.

The farm boy from Bullfrog, North Dakota, found himself in a dilapidated old barn, its boards warped and weathered. A broken-down tractor, covered by a thick blanket of cobwebs, stood in the far corner. Bits and pieces of farm tools littered the ground--a hayfork with a missing tine, a broken ax handle, and several metal buckets swiss cheesed by rust. Even as he looked, a family of mice skittered through a hole in the back wall.

A door slammed. Carter rolled onto his back and looked toward the sound. Two German corporals, both with rifles aimed directly at him, stood against the wall. Between them, in front of the door, stood an SS captain.

"You are awake. Excellent. So then. What is your name?"

The German asked the question first in heavily accented English. He repeated it in German, Russian, and badly fractured French. Carter offered no response. He beat down the instinct to blurt out name, rank, and serial number. In his current situation, that information would only make things worse.

"_Name, rank, und seriennummer. Sprechen sie! (Name, rank and serial number. Speak!)_"

A vicious kick, courtesy of the SS captain's metal-tipped boots, struck his hip. Carter huddled in on himself. Trembling fingers dug into the front compartment of his utility belt, searching for his lock pick. Even as the comforting coldness of the metal tool slipped into his palm, the two enemy non-coms yanked him to his feet. The officer slipped a meat hook beneath the chains of his cuffs and all three hoisted him up.

When they finished, Carter stretched between the rafters and the floor, his heels barely able to brush the ground. His shoulder screamed in their sockets even as the metal cuffs bit into his wrists. Andrew gasped once but made no other sound.

The soldiers stripped him. First the tool belt then his boots. Carter got in three good kicks, including a hard one to the officer's jaw, before a rifle butt to his right kidney stilled his resistance. Paralyzed by pain, Carter gasped for air and blinked away the fireworks that filled his vision. Lamplight glittered off the blade of a knife--his own--as it sliced through shirt and undershirt. Within seconds, they stripped him down to the skin, without even his underwear between him and the night chill.

The captain spread the contents of Carter's belt over the top of a pair of rickety sawhorses. The American watched, flushed with satisfaction. The Kraut would find nothing that could possibly identify his prisoner as anything but a professional saboteur. All the tools were of German manufacture, most of them 'liberated' either by the German underground or by Hogan and his men. A search of his clothing proved equally fruitless.

The German officer threw down all but one scrap of rag and turned back to his prisoner.

"I am Wilfred Von Hippel, Captain, SS. You have resisted and I am proven the victor. We shall now move on to more important matters. We shall talk. Or, rather, _you_ shall talk and I shall listen."

The captain moved toward Carter with a serpentine slide. He limbered his shoulders and wrists. Knuckles crackled. He wrapped the scrap of cloth around his right hand to protect his knuckles.

"We have much to learn from one another. I, at least, intend to learn a great deal from you."


	6. Chapter 6

TITLE:A SPOT OF TROUBLE

AUTHOR:Meercat

RATING:Strong PG-13

WARNINGS:Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

AUTHOR'S NOTE NUMBER ONE: For those who asked for longer chapters, voila!

AUTHOR'S NOTE NUMBER TWO: The end section of this chapter starts the strong PG-13 content. Just thought you should know...

Chapter 6

Robert Hogan knelt in forest shadows and considered his options.

Time was extremely limited. They had four hours to find Carter, get him out of whatever mess he'd stumbled into, and get back to Stalag 13 in time for morning roll call.

When Carter hadn't returned by 0100, Hogan turned to order the remainder of his team into blacks and loam, only to find them suited up and waiting for him. By 0110, the four men exited the tunnel through the hollowed-out tree trunk and slipped into the forest. For the tenth time that night, he thanked heaven Hochstetter decided against staying overnight at the prison camp. His presence would have severely hampered, if not blocked, any search and rescue effort.

"Looks like our little Andrew ran into a spot of trouble." Newkirk knelt beside Hogan under the spreading branches of a twisted, ancient beech tree and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "There's a dead Kraut over there. Caught one right in the throat. Bless 'im, but I didn't think the little guy 'ad it in him."

"Spread out," Hogan whispered to his team. "Look for any sign of Carter."

Within minutes, Kinch waved them over to show them his finds--Carter's knit cap and sidearm. The black American held the cap to his nose and sniffed. He looked up at his companions, his expression grave.

"I found these here, on the edge of the ravine. There's blood on the cap."

The colonel took the weapon and withdrew its clip. "One shot fired."

Hogan reinserted the clip, set the safety, and slid the barrel between his belt and the small of his back. He studied the ground where Carter had fallen and pointed to slide marks in the leaves and twigs that littered the forest floor.

"Looks like they dragged him off. That way." Hogan pointed to the marks and indicated the direction. "Let's go. Kinch, Newkirk, watch our flanks. LeBeau, the rear. Remember, stay low and keep quiet. That dead German over there means there are active patrols in the area. After all the noise and lights, they're bound to be stirred up. We can't afford to stumble into them, not if we hope to find Carter and get back to camp before roll call."

The team followed the trail until it vanished at the side of the Hammelburg Road. Compared to the shadowed interior of the forest, the moonlit road left the men feeling dangerously open and vulnerable. The four men kept to the deepest shadows, alert for any sign of enemy presence.

Ever the impatient one, Louis LeBeau was the first to break cover. He stepped into the grassy verge of the road, only to be pulled back into hiding by Kinch. Before the little Frenchman could protest, he too heard the rumble of an approaching engine. The team faded even further back into the forest, barely in time to dodge the headlights of three troop trucks filled with German soldiers.

Hogan swallowed his heart back into place and patted his sleeve against his sweating upper lip and forehead. They waited an eternal moment more before wilting with relief.

At Hogan's signal, Newkirk stepped out, his movements small and cautious. When his appearance brought no cry of alarm, he crossed the final distance and knelt beside the narrow, poorly paved lane. A rustle of leaves and a hint of movement behind him was a reassurance--his back was protected.

The pickpocket's fingers skimmed over fresh tire marks in the dirt shoulder.

"Looks like they either had a car here or met one."

Hogan aborted a move to slam his fist into a nearby tree trunk. "Damn it. If they took him away by car, we'll never find him in time."

Kinchloe squinted toward the darkness to their right. A light in the distance caught his attention, so faint as to only be seen in his peripheral vision. Like a distant star, it disappeared the instant he looked directly at it.

"Colonel, there's something over there. Light, through the trees."

"Everybody pray this is the right place. If Carter's not there, there's not a hell of a lot more we can do."

HH

As satisfying as it may be to personally inflict damage to his prisoner, impact pains in his wrist forced von Hippel to lay off the beating. Rubbing bruised knuckles that ached despite the cloth padding, Captain von Hippel moved off to search the barn. A six-foot long, braided band of leather hung from a hook on the far wall. He folded it in half and slapped the creaking, dry band against the gloved palm of his left hand.

"I grow very tired of your obstinate silence. Dawn is but a few hours away, and I would very much like to present my report to my superiors over breakfast. To do that, I will need information from you. So far, I have been lenient."

Carter spat blood from his mouth and worried a loose tooth with his tongue. His face felt three times the size it had that morning. His ribs protested every ragged breath. Lenient. Right. And Hitler's the head of the German Boy Scouts.

"Who are you? How did you know to sabotage the way station on the one night it housed the ordnance convoy? Where did you get your information? Were there others with you? Speak or I will draw out every drop of your blood and feed it to the nearest swine."

_I hope you choke on it and get the trots._

"_ANSWER ME!_"

Von Hippel's arm swung around. The makeshift lash struck Carter over the right ribs and wrapped around his back. Fire burned up and down his spine. A second strike, and third, raised painful welts. Carter sucked in air and did his best not to make a sound. The fourth strike landed across the others. Skin ripped. A warm and sticky liquid rolled down his leg or dripped off his right butt cheek.

"Who are you?" _Whish._ "Where are you from?" _Snap-whish._ "Are you German, a traitor to the Reich? Are you American or Russian?"

_Colonel? Colonel, help me. It hurts._

"What is your name and rank? What part did you play in tonight's explosions?"

Schultz. Remember. Pretend I'm--AH!--Schultz. I'll see nothing, k--know nothing, s--oh God, please make it stop--say nothing.

A/N: For those who might wonder, "the trots" means, well, you "trot" to the bathroom. A lot.


	7. Chapter 7

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Chapter 7

The four men wove through the trees and brush until they came to the edge of an overgrown yard. The remains of a house sat farthest away from their position at the end of a rutted, long unused drive. Comprised of scorched timbers and collapsed walls, fire had gutted its interior, leaving only a desiccated husk. A rickety old windmill, fan blades rusted in place, stood between the house and the barn. A German staff car sat in moonlit shadows between the barn and the windmill.

The barn itself fared slightly better than the house. The walls and roof were solid, but every window had been broken. On two windows without shutters, weather-faded boards covered the openings. Frail yellow light poured out of every crack in the structure.

"Looks like our luck may be changing." Hogan signaled the small Frenchman to his side. "LeBeau. See if you can get a peek inside. Be careful." He turned to his two remaining men and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Kinch, Newkirk, watch our backs. We don't know how many Germans may be around. I don't want any surprises."

LeBeau's "_D'accord, mon Colonél,_" overlapped the other men's, "Yes, sir."

The little Frenchman slithered through the tall grass until he reached the rocky, barren border that surrounded the ancient structure. After a final long look for German patrols, he rose to his feet, raced across the open ground, and plastered himself in the scant cover of the building's shadow.

He returned less than two minutes later, almost falling into Kinch's arms. Corporal Louis LeBeau whispered in broken, heavily emotional French interspersed with little retching noises. Hogan caught little of it except for a strangled _mon Dieu._

"What is it?" Hogan hissed. "What do you see?"

"'e . . . 'e izz in dere." LeBeau's accent always thickened under emotional stress. "_Mon Dieu, ses pauvres soutiennent (My God, his poor back). _Oh _mon Dieu._"

"What!"

LeBeau tried three times to speak. No sound emerged. His eyes rolled far back in his head. His skin, even under the paint, lightened several shades. Only Kinch's grip kept him from falling over in a dead faint. LeBeau swallowed several times to make his stomach settle.

Hogan pushed Louis out of the way, crept forward, and peeked over the windowsill to see for himself. He instantly wished he had not. The barn, lit by two glass-chimneyed kerosene lanterns and a single high-powered flashlight, held four people--two non-commissioned soldiers, an officer in an SS captain's uniform, and Sergeant Andrew Carter.

The American prisoner hung from a rafter, as naked as the day he was born. His back from throat to knees was a crisscross of raised welts, ripped skin, and blood. Hogan watched the German officer swing his makeshift whip and open another line of skin. Carter convulsed and moaned but said not one word.

The Colonel caught a glimpse of his young friend's face--swollen lip and jaw, bruised cheeks, and bloody nose. Both eyes were black and half swollen closed; a cut bisected his left eyebrow. Blood poured from his scalp in two places and from his right ear. The scarlet trickles joined other drops in a growing puddle beneath Carter's suspended, slowly rotating body.

Blind rage flamed in the Colonel's eyes. Hogan growled low in his throat. Temper in full flare, he propelled himself toward the barn door.

Kinchloe, Newkirk, and LeBeau grabbed Hogan and dragged him away from the barn. It required their combined strength to pull the outraged officer far enough away for their conversation to pass unheard by the Germans.

"Colonel, no!" Kinch held to Hogan's shoulders. Pinning him face down on the ground was no easy task, even for someone as strong as Kinchloe. "You can't!"

"Let me go. I have to get that boy out of there!"

Newkirk threw himself across Hogan's legs. LeBeau, the smallest man on the team, rode Hogan's back, trying desperately to hold him in place. Hogan thrashed and struggled but could not break their hold. A cry of pain from within the barn spurred his frenzy.

"We'll get him out, guv'nor, but we have to do it right."

"They are right, _Colonél_ 'ogan We will 'ave but one shot at this. It must not fail."

"Sir, we can't just barge in there, guns blazing," Kinch said. "They might kill Carter before they'd risk him being rescued."

For an eternal moment, emotion overruled common sense. Kinch's argument at last broke through the violent haze. He had to rescue Carter without drawing additional danger his way. The burning panic faded.

Kinchloe, LeBeau, and Newkirk slumped, every muscle quivering in relief. The colonel was back with them.

Hogan looked around, searching for anything that might help them. Something fluttered overhead. As he watched, a flight of bats circled the windmill before they vanished through the empty sockets that had once been windows in someone's home. He eyed the clearing sky and three-quarter moon, the windmill, the vehicles, the barn, and back. He turned his watch to read its face in the faint moonlight--0348. Did they have enough time? Possibly.

"Kinch, you and Newkirk get to work on that windmill. Find some way to knock it down, preferably without any loud explosions that might bring additional patrols our way. Drop it on top the car if you can, but I'll take anything we can get. LeBeau, you're with me. As soon as the Krauts come out to investigate the noise, we'll take 'em down."


	8. Chapter 8

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Many thanks to those of you who have contacted me regarding the German and/or French translations. I apologize for any errors. I used an online translator that apparently wasn't worth its bandwidth. (_facepalm_) Again, my apologies.

Chapter 8

Captain von Hippel discarded the makeshift whip. He might return to it later. In the meantime, he preferred variety in his interrogations. It amused him and kept his victim off balance and unprepared.

Having built up a sweat, von Hippel shrugged out of his great coat and laid it across the sawhorse then retrieved Carter's knife from the other end of the wooden frame. Without looking at his prisoner, he withdrew the blade from its sheath, tossed it into the air, and caught it again by the rubber hilt. Illumination from the kerosene lamps and flashlight glistened off the blade and threw rainbows against the barn's gray walls.

"A nice weapon. Excellent balance. Fine craftsmanship. German, of course. Where did you get it?"

A single mantra rolled over and over through Carter's jumbled thoughts.

_Can't tell them anything. The Colonel, Peter, Louie, Kinch, all the others. If I talk, they'll die. Can't mess this up. Be Schultz. Know nothing. Say nothing._

"A 'pretty one' like you must have many friends in your army, yes? Strong friends, man friends. They take good care of you, do they not?"

Mind flirting with the edge of unconsciousness, Carter blinked the haze from his blackened eyes and stared at the SS captain. The questions made no sense. Something dirty, even slimy, lay beneath the officer's words.

He didn't understand. Yes, he had friends--what soldier didn't? Most of them were strong. Like the colonel. And Kinch was strong enough to break a board in two if he wanted or if Colonel Hogan asked it of him. And yes, they took good care of him, just as he watched out for them. What did the captain mean? What was he after?

"You think of yourself as a man as well, do you not?" The officer laughed and moved the knife in a figure-eight at hip level. "I wonder if you would still think so if I were to remove that thing which all men value most highly."

Carter shuddered and closed his eyes. Terror squeezed the breath from his lungs. His heart lurched, paused, fluttered, and raced. He wanted desperately to escape the torment by fainting dead away. He fought the instinct to lose all bodily control but could not hold back a wimper of fear.

"Ah, you understand English, at least. Now we are getting somewhere."

Captain von Hippel picked up a long, narrow, dark object from off the floor and flicked away clinging strips of rotting hay. He weighed the new object against the knife in his opposite hand. Smiling, he took a single step forward.

"You will answer my questions now, yes?"

HH

It was a simple matter to undermine the windmill's tripod support. Termites and rot had weakened the leg closest to the German's car. Burrowing animals and harsh weather had undermined its base. Getting the brittle structure to fall would not be a problem. The trick would be to bring it down where they wanted it and not on top their own heads.

Using a rope Kinch had brought from camp, Newkirk tied one end around what looked to be the weakest section. The two men retreated to what they hoped would be a safe distance. A glance showed Hogan and LeBeau in position in front of the barn. The Colonel signaled the go-ahead an instant before Andrew Carter screamed.

Spurred by the horrendous sound, the two men yanked on the rope with all their strength. The first try earned only a weak groan from the wood and the scratching, flapping, aerial escape of chittering bats from the upper framework. On the second try, the wood gave a sharp pop. The entire structure shuddered as if in pain. They coordinated their strength and pulled a third time.

The wood cracked like a shotgun blast. The sudden lack of resistance landed Ivan and Peter on their backs. With a torturous growl of fractured wood and warping metal, the windmill swayed first left then right, threatening to fall first one way then the other. The men scrambled clear.

With a sound like a dying thing, the windmill finally tipped sideways like a downed pine tree, directly on top of the German staff car.

HH

"_Was das war? (What was that?)_" Captain von Hippel dropped the knife in his surprise. His hand went to his holstered sidearm. "_Gehen sie sehen! (Go see!)_"

The two German corporals, rifles held ready, stepped through the barn door to investigate the noise. The shorter of the two came back to report.

"_Herr Hauphman, die windmühle hat auf das auto eingestürzt. (Sir, the windmill has collapsed onto the car.)_"

"_Es was!_ _(It what!)_"

HH

Hogan signaled LeBeau to stay out of sight around the far corner of the building even as he himself crouched behind a tangled roll of fencing wire. Taking out the two guards would not be enough. They had to get the SS captain to come out to survey the damage.

Two figures stepped into the doorway and looked out. The smaller one disappeared back inside. German voices exchanged brief dialogue then the two rifle-armed soldiers were back, followed by a third figure holding an automatic pistol.

Hogan's first bullet hit the SS captain in the left temple, the second his chest. The enemy officer, the entire right side of his head blown away, crumbled to the ground like a puppet whose strings were cut.

The non-coms dove for cover well clear of one another and returned fire. One bullet fired by the German behind an overturned water barrel burned a path through Peter Newkirk's hair but did not break skin. Tufts of earth exploded in starlike bursts all around his position behind a pile of discarded debris.

The other man, hunkered behind a stack of moldy, moss-covered logs, chose a closer target. A line of fire from his weapon tore splinters of wood from the barn's side but did no damage to LeBeau. One bullet ricocheted off the barn door hinge and raked across Hogan's back, leaving a shallow furrow across his right shoulder blade.

Fearing that a stray shot through either the open door or the thin barn wall would hit Carter, Hogan signaled Kinchloe to circle around behind the two German non-coms. LeBeau and Newkirk increased their fire, pinning the enemy in place long enough for Kinch to reach the best position to provide crossfire.

The exchange lasted some sixty seconds. The enemy soldiers, recognizing their sour position, shouted to one another and planned to seek the dubious cover of the woods.

Before they could move to better cover, automatic fire from the shadows beneath the trees took them out.


	9. Chapter 9

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

AUTHOR'S NOTE #1: Many thanks to those of you who have contacted me regarding the German and/or French translations. I apologize for any errors. I used an online translator that apparently wasn't worth its bandwidth. i (facepalm) /i Again, my apologies.

AUTHOR'S NOTE #2: I go to the doctor today for tests. Depending on the results, I may be a few days posting the next part. Please be patient. To make up for the delay, I present the longest chapter yet...

Chapter 9

Carter's breath came in short sobs, punctuated by gasps. His fingers were numb. Twice he dropped the pick but managed to catch it in the bloody palm of his hand. He worked the tool in the lock, all the while praying not to hear the sound of the Germans returning. His fogged mind could not connect the sound of gunfire and screams with anything relevant to his situation. The Germans were outside. They would come back. He had to escape.

The lock gave way. Impact with the ground jarred every bit of air from his lungs. Bright stars danced before his eyes as his body screamed in pain. His back and side burned like acid. Blessed unconsciousness called to him. Oh, so _now_ it showed up when he _didn't_ want it.

He had to get out. Had to get away. He crawled, inch by torturous inch, toward the door. His groping hand fell on something cold, metallic. He recognized the knife more by feel than by sight. The rubber grip settled into his palm like a familiar friend.

A dark shape moved between him and the exit. Carter sobbed and reared up onto his knees, brandishing his only weapon. More figures, little more than poorly defined silhouettes in the lanterns' light, moved into the barn.

"Stay away from me!"

The first figure stopped moving. Was it holding out its hands?

"Whoa! Carter, it's me--Colonel Hogan!"

Andrew blinked blood and dirt from his swollen eyes. The blurry forms around him took on vaguely familiar shapes. They _looked_ like his commanding officer and his friends. Could he trust his injured senses or was it delusion? Had the torture driven him into madness?

"Andrew? _Mon ami_, we are here."

Carter's head bobbed in the general direction of the smallest shadow but he didn't lower the knife. It sounded like Louie, even looked like Louie, but how could he be sure? Did he dare take the risk?

No.

"You German son-of-a-bitch," Carter whispered to the closest apparition. "You won' hurt me any more. You w-won' force me to be-(gasp)-tray his friends. You won'."

* * *

Still horrified by the unmistakable evidence of rough torture on his friend's body, Robert Hogan read the fierce expression on Carter's battered face an instant before the knife turned inward. "No!"

The Colonel leaped forward and grabbed Carter's hands, pinning the bloody fingers to the rubber handle. The struggle lasted only a moment and was over before any of the others could intervene. Andrew had neither the strength nor the awareness to win the fight. He surrendered to unconsciousness even as Hogan wrestled the knifepoint away from Carter's chest.

"What just 'appened 'ere?" Peter Newkirk whispered as Kinchloe spread out the German officer's discarded coat and Hogan lowered Carter onto it. "Did our Andrew just try to--to--"

He swallowed despite an unbearably dry mouth and throat. He couldn't finish the thought, let alone the sentence.

Kinch stared down on his unconscious friend and said, "He'd rather kill himself than betray us."

"Why are you all so surprised by this?" LeBeau groused even as he tried very hard not to see the blood that covered his friend from crown to toe. This was definitely not the time to faint. "He does no more than we each would do for all others, yes?"

Newkirk knelt down and stared at the item that pierced Carter's left flank between the bottom rib and the peak of his hipbone. "What's that in his side? My God, it's a tine from a 'ayfork. The Kraut bastard skewered him straight through!"

Newkirk reached out, desperate to remove the abomination from his friend's body. Hogan caught his wrist, stilling the motion.

"No, leave it. It's plugging the wound. We'll bandage it as best we can to hold it in place until we can get him back to camp." Hogan hurried to put action to words, using scraps of Carter's shirt to augment their scant first aid supplies.

"You should not have killed the _Bosch_ bastard so quickly, _mon Colonél_." LeBeau's jaw locked in hot rage. "He should have lived long enough for me to carve his skin from his bones with a dull butter knife!"

"At the very least," Hogan agreed. He swept one hand in the direction of Carter's discarded tools. "Gather up everything. Be sure you get it all, including every scrap of cloth. We can't leave the Germans any clue as to what went on here," he eyed the puddle of blood on the floor and amended his command, "at least no more than we have to. Once you're finished, let's get the hell out of here. All that shooting may draw a patrol."

Peter Newkirk and Louie LeBeau gathered up all of Andrew's equipment, stuffing it into any spot in the discarded tool belt, along with what remained of his clothing. Ivan Kinchloe helped the Colonel lift their unconscious teammate off the filthy floor, wrap him in the coat, and settle his slight form across Hogan's broad right shoulder.

The two men shared a look heavy with anxiety—Carter had not reacted to the movement, not even with a weak groan.

Five minutes after the final shot, the commandoes exited the barn and vanished into the darkness of the woods.

HH

"Sir," Newkirk said as the party moved through the pre-dawn German forest, "I hate to be a wet blanket but . . . 'ow are we going to explain all this? He sure as 'ell can't come to roll call lookin' like death on a plate."

Hogan's voice was breathless beneath the unconscious man's inert weight. "Kinch. Run ahead . . . send an urgent message . . . to the nearest underground operatives. I need two or three men to meet me . . . _ugh_ . . . 50 yards this side of the stump. They need to bring at least one club or stick . . . and either a switch or a dog whip. Tell them to hurry--the secrecy of our organization depends on it."

Kinch nodded and took off running.

The closer the group came to the camp, the smaller the item had to be to trip Hogan up. More than once during the nightmare trek, he'd stepped on a rock, fallen acorn, pinecone, or dry twig and almost wrenched his ankle. Twinges in his calves and knees warned that he'd be feeling the effects of the abuse for days to come. His arms, shoulders, and the small of his back had their own complaints to file.

The only thing they _didn't_ run into, at least to that point, was a German patrol.

A hand from pressed against Hogan's back, steadying him as he staggered once more under his load. Hogan smiled his gratitude to LeBeau but could spare no breath for thanks.

"Newkirk." The Englishman trotted closer and leaned in to better hear Hogan's winded orders. "As soon as we get close . . . you and LeBeau get back to camp. Clean up. Get ready for roll call. I'll stay with Carter until the men from the Underground arrive. Lay out my uniform . . . and some wet towels. I'm going to have to make . . . a quick change. If I'm late . . . stall . . . as long as you can."

"Wot are you plannin', Gov'ner?"

Speaking with difficulty, Hogan replied in gasped segments. "Sergeant Carter made a rash . . . escape attempt last night . . . hoping to take advantage . . . of the confusion . . . surrounding the explosion. . . . He's going to be stopped . . . by local citizens . . . loyal to the Fatherland."

"Ahh," LeBeau nodded, "and these 'loyal citizens' will take out their wrath and frustration on the unfortunate American."

"We have to time this just right. . . . Carter's going to be missed at roll call. . . . Klink will send out . . . guards and dogs. They have to find them . . . in time to see what they _think_ is Carter . . . being beaten to death."

"I will make certain they go where they are supposed to," LeBeau swore, "even if I have to trot ahead of them and sniff the ground like a silly little dog."

"I'll even draw them a bloomin' map," Newkirk said.

"But would the stupid _Bosch_ be able to _read _it?"

Newkirk stopped, studied the land around them, and reported, "We're about 50 yards from the stump, Colonel."

Newkirk and LeBeau helped Hogan ease his unconscious burden to the ground and tucked the SS Captain's coat closer around his body. The Colonel, arms trembling with the night's emotions and exertions, propped himself against the trunk of a gnarly oak tree and held Carter against him, chest to chest, for body heat and comfort. Peter shrugged out of his jacket and laid it over the two men for additional warmth.

"Take off, you two," Hogan ordered.

Newkirk paused, his hand hovering over Carter bloody hair. Unable to find an uninjured area to touch, he finally withdrew the gesture and followed his French teammate toward the tunnel entrance. Within moments, the forest was silent except for the ever-present sounds of night insects and wind through the trees.

Hogan sat there, cradling Carter against him, and waited. Fever had a tight hold on the younger man, generating a false warmth beneath the shivers of infection, blood loss, and shock. Hogan tucked the coats tight around them both.

Left alone with his thoughts, the forest seemed blacker, more ominous. Shafts of moonlight were muted and tinged with gray. Shifting tree limbs became arms. Swaying trunks twisted themselves into bodies moving through the woods. The scrape of one branch against another or the passage of night-hunting ground animals became whispers of German soldiers.

_I should never have let Carter go out alone. To hell with what London wanted, to hell with those bombs. Someone else could have gotten them further up their route. They weren't worth one ounce of this boy's blood. Hang in there, Andrew. Help is coming._

To the east the sky lightened, a muted blush of multi-toned violet against an otherwise purple-black sky blanketed by both clouds and stars.

Had Kinch been able to reach anyone in the Underground? Had the Americans' absence from Barracks Two been noticed by the guards? Were his men even now being interrogated? Hochstetter would be called. They would lose the dubious protection of the Geneva Convention, and that would mean--

_Get hold of yourself, Rob. You're letting your imagination run away with you._

If the prisoners had already been noted missing, the woods would be swarming with German soldiers and dogs. Ivan, Louis, and Peter were safe enough. Kinch would find _someone_ to respond in time.

Dawn was only minutes away. _Damnit, where are they?_

Freed of the need to concentrate on where he placed his next step, Hogan's mind automatically worked on a contingency plan. If the men from the Underground didn't show, would Colonel Klink--or more importantly, Major Hochstetter--believe Hogan if he claimed to have noticed Carter's absence and slipped out of camp himself in order to bring the boy back? He could say he found Carter after someone else had already worked him over and left him for dead.

_No, that won't work. We're not dressed right. Black clothes, black loam on the skin, no identification, not even our dog tags. Even Klink wouldn't believe me. It has to be the Underground or nothing._

Using spit and a scrap of cloth, Hogan cleaned away the thickest part of the loam still on Carter's skin, being careful not to aggravate his injuries any more than absolutely necessary. What he couldn't wipe off, he hid under rubbings of dirt and mulch from the forest floor.

Someone moved through the woods, three gray figures coming closer with every step. Hogan snatched up the Luger and thumbed off the safety. Burdened with an unconscious Carter, he could neither run nor hide. Should the newcomers prove to be enemies, their only chance would be to take them out quickly.

Three men stepped out of the shadows. All had familiar faces and were dressed in civilian clothes. Two held clubs fashioned from a table leg and a wheel spoke. A whip dangled from a cord around the smallest man's wrist. All three knelt beside the Americans.

Hogan's gun arm slumped to the ground. The barrel of the weapon buried itself in forest mulch as through dragged down by an unbearable weight.

"It is I, Papa Bear. Albert Dietrich," said the man with the table leg club. "Frederich and Erik are with me."

"Thank God," Rob Hogan rasped as he reset the Luger's safety and laid it to one side. "I was beginning to think you'd never get here."

Dietrich, a Hammelburg barber and largest of the three men, replied, "We had to dodge a checkpoint on the road. The explosion has upset them. Your man--he is hurt? Your transmission did not ask for a Doktor."

Hogan pushed away Newkirk's jacket and the German's coat then pulled scraps of cloth turned makeshift bandages from Carter's back. The man in his arms didn't move, even when the material broke partially clotted blood and opened up fresh rivulets. The material glowed red with blood. In the indirect glow of pre-dawn, bruises darkened and swelling intensified. His injuries looked lethal.

"_Got in Himmel_," Dietrich gasped.

The local butcher, Frederick Schleig, swallowed his discomfort and asked, "What do you ask of us, Colonel?"

"I need you to take responsibility for these injuries when the guards and dogs find you. I need it to look like you three took it upon yourselves to patrol the woods because of last night's explosions. You happened across an escaping prisoner and decided to beat him down."

All three men fell back.

"_Nein!_ You cannot be serious! I could not possibly claim to do something this . . . this . . . horrific!"

Hogan eyed the mustard glow now clearly visible on the eastern sky. Rosy hints of sunlight painted the edges of the more distant clouds.

"Look, Dietrich, I don't have time to argue with you. I have exactly fifteen minutes to get back inside, clean up, and appear for roll call. Unless you can pull off your part, our operation is finished. No more Papa Bear. No more Underground. No more way out for hundreds, maybe thousands of Allied soldiers and German nationals who hope to escape this madness. No more messages to or supplies from London. No more anything."

Erik Rugart motioned toward Carter and asked, "But why must we-"

"He's been beaten, whipped to strips, and stabbed with a hayfork tine. These aren't the kind of injuries we can explain away with a barracks brawl. Either you claim to do it or our entire operation becomes suspect. Dietrich? Rugart? Schleig? Can you do this?"

The three Germans stared at each other. Hogan wanted to scream but managed to hold his tongue. The three at last nodded to one another and turned back to the Americans.

"Very well."

Hogan slumped with relief. The second-hardest task was done. Now all he had to do was get back to camp and wait for others to do their part. _Waiting_ would be the hardest task of all.


	10. Chapter 10

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

NOTE TO CARTERFAN: I thought to go to you for a check of the German in this section, but your posts are anonymous...bummer! Could you email me any corrections? Before I post the final version to the Stalag 13 website, I'd like to fix any mistakes. Thank you!

Chapter 10

Hans Schultz counted three times. The result was the same. Oh, this was not good. Not good at all.

Who was missing? The little Frenchman, LeBeau, bounced from foot to foot as though he stood on burning coals from his cooking stove. The Englander, Newkirk, could not stand still, either, rocking on the balls of his feet, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. The big American, Kinchloe, stood quietly but still, somehow, Schultz felt he was anxious to move as well. All three showed signs of a brisk face wash, including hair still glistening with drops of water. Hogan--

"Where is Colonel Hogan?"

"Oh, he's, uh," Newkirk said in a most flip, almost sugary sweet voice, "well, you know the gov'ner, Schultzie."

LeBeau leaned forward as though revealing a terrible secret and said, "He likes to sleep late, you know. He is a man who enjoys his comforts, limited as they are. He could almost pass as a Frenchman, don't you think?"

Sergeant Schultz shook his head hard enough to jiggle his double chin. "He cannot sleep through roll call. He knows this. _I_ know this! I must-"

The barracks door snapped open ahead of the camp's senior POW officer. Hogan's hair stood up in all directions, tiny black spikes glistening with water. His face was flushed and his breaths came hard and deep. The Colonel slipped a second arm into his bomber jacket as the door closed behind him.

Even as Schultz slumped in relief, he noted the expressions of the enlisted men, those from Barracks Two most especially. Anxious. Begging for information? Comfort? Reassurance? Help? What question did they ask with their eyes?

Whatever the problem, a small nod from the senior officer answered their question.

"All present and accounted for, Sergeant," Hogan said in his most no-nonsense officer's voice. The American slipped into his customary place in line and snapped off a perfect salute. "Carry on."

"Yes, sir." Schultz was halfway turned to report just that to Kommandant Klink when the impropriety of the situation dawned on him. He turned back to Hogan, glared at him with a half-hurt expression, and muttered, "Jolly joker."

Colonel Hogan shrugged. A tiny smile raised the corner of his mouth, yet something was missing from the teasing--a light of humor in the American's eyes, perhaps. Something was very wrong.

Hogan shrugged. "Just thought I'd help."

Sergeant Schultz moved back to the corner of the formation and counted again, pointing to each man and muttering a number until--still one short.

"Colonel Hogan-"

Kommandant Klink strode out of his office, riding crop tucked under one arm, monocle firmly in place. Boot heels echoing off the wooden porch, he called out, "Schultz, _repooort_!"

The big man swallowed twice. He silently begged Hogan for a way out. When no help came, he turned most reluctantly back toward his commanding officer.

"Sir. Kommandant Klink. I beg to report that . . . I mean . . . there is one prisoner missing."

"Very we--" Klink blinked like a startled owl. The monocle dropped from his face to dangle at the end of its tether. "What did you say?"

"One prisoner is missing from roll call. There were two missing, but Colonel Hogan came out late so now there is only one." Schultz looked to Hogan and added, "He is maybe still sleeping in, too?"

"Who?"

"Sir?"

Klink waved the crop handle in the air beneath the big Sergeant's nose. "Schultz, don't be a bigger idiot than you have to be. Who is the missing prisoner?"

Colonel Hogan spoke up from his place in line. "It's Sergeant Carter, sir. He must've used last night's explosions as a diversion."

"Sound the alarm! Let loose the dogs! Find him, Schultz!"

"_Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!_ All prisoners back to the barracks! _Raus!_"

Hans Schultz would later wonder why the other prisoners were so quick to obey his order. Under normal circumstances, they would have dallied and stalled to buy their friend time to get further away. Instead, they practically ran for their individual barracks. Within thirty seconds of the first siren wail, only uniformed Luftwaffe guards stood in the compound.

"_Psssst_, Schultz."

Sgt. Schultz followed the hissed voice. Louis LeBeau stood in the partially open door to Barracks Two. Though he needed to get the search teams moving, curiosity made the German Sergeant of the Guard step closer to the little Frenchman.

"What is it, LeBeau? I am in a hurry."

"I know." LeBeau looked around as though seeking anyone who might be eavesdropping on them. His voice softened even more. "Listen. I heard Carter say something about heading toward the river. I think he means to use it to find his way north."

Eying him with suspicion, Schultz asked, "Why are you telling me this? Don't you _want_ him to get away? I thought Sergeant Carter was your friend."

"He _is_ my friend, Schultz. That's why I'm telling you. Carter is an idiot. A _loveable_ idiot, but an idiot nevertheless." Inside, Louis apologized to his injured friend. "He wouldn't know north from a stick in the sand, river or no river. With his luck, he'll end up at the gates to Berchtesgaden. No, no. He is far safer back here, where he has friends to look after him."

"Ahhh. I understand. Thank you, LeBeau. I will concentrate my search near the river."

After dispersing the other search teams, Schultz personally led a team of four men and two dogs south of the camp, in the direction of the river. Within minutes, the dogs whined and strained as they picked up the scent.

They heard voices raised in anger. Hurrying their pace as much as they could, considering Sgt. Schultz's great bulk, the search party stepped through the trees and stumbled upon the sight of three men surrounding and hitting a form stretched out on the ground.

"_Weg! Rückseite weg von ihm! Was tun sie? (Away! Back away from him! What are you doing?)_"

"This American was escaping." It took a moment for Schultz to recognize the speaker as Frederick Schleig, the butcher from Hammelburg.

"Herr Schleig? Herr Dietrich, Herr Rugart! What are you doing here?"

"Someone must patrol when saboteurs strike. We must protect our homes and families from American filth!"

A tiny sigh, the weakest groan, from the naked form huddled on the ground brought the sergeant's attention back to business. The rags that had once been the American's clothes lay around him in bloody clumps, torn and cast aside even as he'd been beaten to the ground.

Schultz waved the three townsmen away.

"Go home. All of you. I do not want to see you around this camp again, is that clear?"

Trusting his men to see the three away from the scene, Hans Schultz lowered his oversized form onto one knee and stared down at the unconscious American. He hissed at the sight of the metal rod that impaled Carter's left side.

"Ohhh, Carter," Schultz crooned in sympathy. "What could you possibly have been thinking?" He turned to the nearest soldier, a corporal. "_Gehen sie zum lager zurück. Rufen sie den Doktor sofort zusammen. Hast! (Return to camp. Summon the doctor at once. Hurry!)_"

Schultz shrugged out of his great coat and swathed the unconscious man in its voluminous folds. The material wrapped twice around Carter, cocooning him in its folds. With a care most often expressed between a father and a newborn child, Hans Schultz knelt down, gathered Andrew Carter into his arms, and carried him back to camp.


	11. Chapter 11

TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE 

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: My apologies for the delay in posting the next chapter. My computer monitor died. I had this chapter written but I couldn't get to the file!!! Had to wait for payday...I hope it is worth the wait.

Chapter 11

Kommandant Wilhelm Klink could not believe his own eyes. From the shaded porch in front of his office, he watched his Sergeant of the Guard return to camp. Behind him, the other men from the search parties returned in groups of three to five men. Two dog handlers cut away from their respective teams, headed for the kennels. Their dogs whined and strained at the leash, protesting being returned to the fenced pens until a sharp command from each handler settled them down.

All perfectly ordinary, unworthy of note. What made Klink's jaw sag and his eyes bulge was the battered, bloody form draped across the big Sergeant's arms. Even half-hidden in the voluptuous folds of Schultz's coat, Klink could see extensive injuries. The boy's face was unrecognizable beneath the swelling, bruises, and blood. Was the American even still alive?

The big Sergeant, his face red with strain and bathed in sweat, stumbled to a stop in front of Kommandant Klink. Exhausted to the point of lightheadedness, Schultz wobbled in place like a tree threatening to topple over. Only by bracing his feet wide apart was he able to stop the teeter-totter motion.

Klink held out both hands and waved them at the unconscious prisoner in a what-is-this gesture.

"Schultz, what--who did this to him? _You?_"

"Me!" Hans Schultz answered. Though his voice was a bare whisper due to serious lack of breath, his horror at the mere thought could not be misinterpreted. "_Nein! Nein, Herr Kommandant!_ I could never do such a thing!"

"Was it one or more of the other guards? No? Then who-"

"Sir, I saw three figures, men in civilian clothes, running from the scene." _True enough,_ Schultz thought to himself. _I did see them running away. I will simply not mention talking to them beforehand._ "I believe citizens from the area caught him away from camp and-"

Klink shivered like a dog shedding rainwater. He waved Schultz toward a small, windowless building four structures down from his office--the camp infirmary.

"You can give me a more detailed report later. The doctor has been called. In the meantime, take him to the infirmary hut. Corporal Gephardt, get someone to start treating this man's injuries. I believe Sergeant Wilson acts as camp medic for the prisoners. Send him to the infirmary hut then bring Colonel Hogan to my office."

His arms filled with Andrew Carter's unconscious body, Hans Schultz could not salute, but he did nod, mumble a hasty acknowledgement, then shuffled off toward the infirmary building. The big man huffed and wheezed the entire way but refused to pass his burden to anyone else, even when several of his men made the offer.

Corporal Gephardt saluted and trotted over to Barracks Five on the first of his two assigned errands.

HH

Colonel Robert Hogan slipped through the door into Klink's office even before Corporal Gephardt had it halfway open.

"You asked to see me, Sir?"

"Not 'asked,' Hogan. When will you understand that--ohhhhhh, never mind." Klink sank down into his chair with a resigned sigh. He suddenly felt very, very tired. "You will continue to act as you see fit, no matter what I say to the contrary."

Standing before the desk, Colonel Robert Hogan twisted his crush cap between his hands until the material squeaked in protest. He shuffled from one foot to the other and back again. Klink had never seen the senior prisoner so pale or his eyes so haunted.

"Sir, I saw Schultz coming back. Andrew--Sergeant Carter--is he-"

Klink did not know how to respond to a Colonel Hogan too choked up with emotion to finish a sentence. Hogan was _never_ at a loss for words--the man could talk the Devil himself into buying a furnace. As Kommandant of Stalag 13 and a loyal German officer of the old Prussian school, he really should not comfort an enemy, but the raw fear in the American's eyes stirred Klink's sense of compassion.

"He was alive when Sergeant Schultz reached camp. Though I have no details, I can say that his injuries are serious enough that I have summoned a doctor. Your own Sergeant Wilson is with him now."

There, he had said the words that would comfort but delivered them in such as way as to be nothing more than basic information. Not words for comfort's sake alone.

"But he's alive." The tone of Hogan's voice practically begged for reassurance.

"For the time being. As for the future, who can say?" Klink shifted in his chair. Wooden slats popped and creaked. Klink grappled for the right words, the right blend of compassionate human being and strict disciplinarian. "Colonel Hogan. You realize, I trust, there will be repercussions from this misadventure. If he survives," Klink noted the way Hogan shrank away at that statement and, hard as it was to believe, paled several more shades, "he will face severe punishment for his attempt at escape."

"Yes, sir." Hogan seemed unnaturally fascinated by the play of early morning sunlight reflecting off the silver decoration on Klink's World War I _pikelhaube_. "That's understood."

"However," Klink continued, "given the extent of his injuries, I have decided to hold off on implementation of his punishment until such time as he is capable of understanding its cause and significance. Confinement to the cooler for two months on half-rations would mean little to an unconscious man."

Hogan swallowed twice before finally answering, "That's generous of you, Kommandant. On behalf of Sergeant Carter, thank you."

The Kommandant wagged a warning finger in the air between them.

"Don't thank me yet, Colonel Hogan," he said. "His punishment will not be a pleasant one. Not only did he attempt an escape from a luft stalag famous throughout Germany as being escape-proof, he managed to entice local civilians into an act of violence."

Klink regretted the words the instant they left his mouth.

Hogan's attention latched onto Klink with a vice-like grip. "Local civilians, Sir?"

"That's not important," Klink said and hurried onto the next topic with almost panicked haste. "Due to the circumstances, that being Sergeant Carter's very serious condition, I hereby give permission for one person from Barracks Two to be at his bedside at all times until the doctor deems him out of danger. There will, naturally, be guards posted both in and around the infirmary during his confinement. I will not have a repeat of this incident. I will leave the scheduling of the bedside vigil in your hands."

"Understood. Thank you, Kommandant."

When someone knocked on the office door, Klink called, "Come."

The door opened. Schultz, his face still alarmingly red, stepped in. His salute, while militarily correct, lacked a definite snap and polish.

"Herr Kommandant. Sergeant Carter has been moved to the infirmary as you ordered. Sergeant Wilson is with him, as is the doctor."

"Thank you, Schultz. I have given permission for one person at a time to sit vigil at his bedside. See to a posting of at least two guards, with at least one in the room with the patient at all times."

"Yes, Herr Kommandant."

"With your permission, Colonel," Hogan said.

Before Klink could object, the American officer had vanished through the door.


	12. Chapter 12

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Chapter 12

None of the POWs gathered in the exercise yard or clumped around the various barracks buildings noticed the bite of a chill northeast wind that sprang up shortly after lunch. Less than half of the 1,978 men had even bothered to visit the mess hall. Those few who did more often than not pushed their potatoes or sauerkraut around on their plates or picked their bread to pieces and left crumbs for the birds. Trash, dead leaves, and puffs of dust swirled from once fenced border to another.

A few men tried to look busy, dragging rakes or hoes around shrubbery or flowerbeds, only to have the wind undo their every effort. Their attempts were half-hearted at best and only added to the overall air of gloom.

Silence, fueled by an oppressive sense of breathless waiting, lay over Luft Stalag 13. The guards, each and every one of them unnerved by the uncharacteristically solemn prisoners, patrolled with extra vigilance. The dogs lay despondent in their kennels, whimpering occasionally as they picked up on the somber atmosphere. More than once, Schultz, who had yet to move from in front of the Kommandant's office, dabbed at his eyes with a large white handkerchief or blew his nose into its folds.

Despite the brisk breeze that snapped the swastika-decorated flag atop the Kommandant's office, the air felt heavy against the skin. Something pressed down on every shoulder and chased away any thoughts beyond standing the vigil.

Every half-hour since Schultz returned to camp with the injured prisoner, Kommandant Klink stepped out of his office and onto his covered porch. Riding crop firmly tucked under his arm, monocle in place, and cap perched at what was _meant_ to be a rakish angle over his right eye, he would study the camp, in particular the clump of POWs from Barracks Two who had stationed themselves directly in front of the infirmary. Twice, he ordered a change to the camp's guard rotation, adding extra men to each of the towers and doubling up the gate guards, but otherwise did no more than watch the Allied servicemen who waited for news.

Robert Hogan paced back and forth in front of a short bench with on one broken leg that leaned against the outside wall of the camp's hospital. He pushed back the cuff of his bomber jacket and eyed his watch: 1548 hours.

_God, will this day ever end?_

A better question to ask himself might be: did he really want it to, considering Andrew Carter's poor chances of survival?

Seated beside Ivan Kinchloe on a second bench on the far side of the door, Peter Newkirk spotted the time-check and asked, "How long 'as it been, Colonel?"

Hogan straightened his sleeves and resumed pacing, following a distinct trail in the tan dirt beneath his feet. "Ten minutes shy of six hours."

"Six hours!" Louis Le Beau hugged himself and fidgeted in place.

"The good news is," Kinch said with deliberate optimism, "he's hanging in there. As long as he's alive, there's hope."

"The bad news," Hogan countered with even stronger pessimism, "is it's been six damn hours since the doc threw us out to start the operation. My God, Carter's condition is so critical, the doctor couldn't even wait for an ambulance to take him to the nearest hospital." Hogan jabbed a flat-palmed hand toward the infirmary door. "He's called for blood donors _nine times_!"

"Carter's young, sir, an' strong," Newkirk said, his Cockney accent thickened with emotion. "If our Andrew can survive nearly blowin' 'imself up a 'undred times with that 'omemade chemistry set of his, the lad's not about to let some ruddy ol' Kraut take 'im down."

The other Barracks Two men murmured their agreements, some more convincingly than others.

"I'm trying very hard to believe that," Hogan whispered. He looked at his watch again and sighed. "Six hours."

A particularly strong blast of wind caught Hogan's crush cap and sent it flying straight at LeBeau's face. The French chef caught the hat, tried to smile, and handed it back. Hogan set it back on his head and pulled it tight down over his crown. The senior POW, his skin pimpled with goose bumps and reddened by the chill, turned his back to the wind and hunkered deeper into his jacket.

Kinch eyed the roiling, gunmetal gray clouds overhead. "That storm front London warned us about is almost here. Looks like it might have some snow in it."

"I don't care if there's a blizzard. I'm not moving from this spot until we know about Carter." Hogan's entire body braced as though expecting a blow. "One way or another."

The men were silent for some five minutes before Kinch muttered, "Uh oh. Trouble."

In the corner of his eye, Hogan caught a change in the black Sergeant--a shift in posture and a dawn of concern on his face. Focusing his attention, the Colonel followed Kinchloe's line of sight. He turned in time to see a black staff car decorated with the double-lightning bolt fender flags of the SS pull through the second gate and slide to a gravel-tossing stop in front of Klink's office.

Sergeant Schultz stuffed his handkerchief back into his coat pocket and disappeared into the building, presumably to alert the Kommandant to the new arrival.

Newkirk spit on the ground and groused, "Bloody 'ell, looks like ol' Hochstetter's back again. Still playin' his silly little games."

"Damnit," Hogan muttered as the Barracks Two men and some of the other prisoners moved to stand behind him in an impromptu show of solidarity, "let him play in someone else's yard."

The driver stepped out of the car and opened the rear passenger door. Major Wolfgang Hochstetter slid out of the vehicle and immediately sought Hogan in the hundreds of Allied prisons. He found the senior POW in front of the infirmary, standing with legs braced wide apart, arms crossed over his chest, and head held high. At his back, some two dozen men watched the new arrival with varying expressions of concern or loathing.

Hochstetter sneered at their display of support, his expression one of unmistakable contempt. He could not see beyond the threadbare clothing and prisoner status to the fighting men beneath.

The two men locked eyes. The German Gestapo officer's expression morphed into one of zealous, almost maniacal anticipation. Hogan returned it with a combination of hatred, cold defiance, and scorn.

"Doesn't he have anything better to do," Kinch sighed, "than to chase after us? I can hear him now, ranting at the top of his voice and blaming everyone from the lowliest cook in the kitchen to Colonel Hogan for the destruction of the way station."

"He will want to question Carter," LeBeau warned as the first fat snowflakes drifted downward, "_especially_ if they've found their missing patrol."

Hogan's voice lowered to a guttural growl. His fingers tightened into white-knuckled, trembling fists.

"If he gets within ten feet of that boy," Hogan vowed, "it'll be over my dead body."


	13. Chapter 13

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Chapter 13

Major Wolfgang Hochstetter stomped his way into the Kommandant's office, forcing Klink to frantically backpedal to keep from being run over on his way out. By the time the senior officer righted himself and turned to face his guest, Hochstetter had paced four round-trips between the desk and the window.

"This is a surprise, Major." _A very UNPLEASANT one,_ Klink thought. _Still, it never hurts to be polite to the Gestapo, and NOT being polite can hurt very much._ He pasted on a quasi-sincere smile of greeting as he moved to sit behind his desk--the closest he had to a position of power from which to deal with any problem. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Dark, compassionless eyes stopped Klink in mid-motion. "Don't pretend to be an idiot, Klink ... What am I saying! You aren't 'pretending' at all, are you?"

Klink settled into his chair and did his best to sound cordial and accommodating in the face of the Gestapo officer's rudeness. "I can assume, then, that this is not a social call. Please, Major, have a seat and tell me what brings you to our humble home here in Stalag 13." He unlocked and held up the humidor. "May I offer you a cigar?"

Hochstetter stared from the cigars to the chair, threw up his arms, and continued to pace. Klink set the box down and did his best to hide his amusement. Was this how Hogan felt when he tweaked an enemy officer's temper under the guise of cordiality and social grace? Klink found it equally entertaining. Not that he showed it--Wilhelm Klink had enough survival sense to know better.

"I received your message." Hochstetter stopped his pacing long enough to pin the camp Kommandant with a beady-eyed stare. The way his eyes failed to blink and his neck stretched forward and down reminded Klink of a hungry vulture eying a fresh kill. "The escaped prisoner was found and returned to camp. Your report said he was wounded? Give me details."

"There is not that much to tell, really. An American, Sergeant Andrew Carter, was found to be missing at morning roll call. We immediately confined all other prisoners to their barracks, released the dogs, and sent out search parties. One of them found Sergeant Carter in time to see three men in civilian clothes assaulting him."

"Ahhh. Loyal German citizens. Good." Hochstetter smiled in malicious satisfaction. "We need more like them. Continue."

"Sergeant Schultz chased the men away and took custody of the escaped prisoner. Upon seeing the extent of his injuries, Schultz sent a man on ahead to request a doctor then returned to camp carrying the unconscious prisoner."

"His injuries--describe them to me."

"Major, why is that so important? He is injured, having been beaten and stabbed by civilians. German soldiers witnessed the assault. The doctor has spent the last six hours treating his wounds and performing surgery to repair the damage. Why would you need to know more?"

"Not that you truly need to know, but one of our finest young officers vanished last night, along with two of his men. A third was found in the woods between here and the destroyed way station. The man had been shot in the throat."

"Surely you don't think--you can't suspect-" Colonel Klink's jaw fell in surprise. His monocle landed in his lap. "Major Hochstetter, your constant suspicion regarding my prisoners is preposterous! And to be perfectly honest, it is getting quite old."

"Colonel Klink," Hochstetter said through clenched teeth. He leaned on the desk with both hands and did his best to loom over the Luftwaffe officer. "Do you not find it the _least bit suspicious_ that a way station filled with vital ordnance is sabotaged on the same night that one of your prisoners escapes _and_ one of our more experienced patrols disappears?"

Klink leaned back in his chair until his shoulder brushed the wall, a bemused smile on his face. "No, Major Hochstetter, I do not."

Hochstetter's mouth opened and closed twice before he finally snarled, "How could even you not see it?"

Klink waved in an isn't-it-obvious gesture and said, "I do not see what is not there."

Klink noted the ash and dirt under Hochstetter's unmanicured fingernails with some distaste. A faint odor of old smoke and spent explosives permeated the black uniform. To combat the subtle stink of war, Klink opened his humidor and lit up a cigar.

Before he could fully enjoy the first draw on of tobacco smoke, the Gestapo Major counted off each major point, starting with his pinky finger. The remainder of his hand showed still more signs of a hurried and incomplete washing.

"The explosions at the depot are now proven sabotage. One of your prisoners _just happens_ to escape that very same night. A patrol assigned to the section of woods between this camp and the way station encounters the enemy, either a single man or a small party. The deployment roster shows this encounter to have happened sometime _after_ the explosion. One soldier was killed by a single bullet to the throat. The other three, including Captain Von Hippel, are missing. Now your escaped Allied prisoner returns to you with life-threatening injuries. A result of his encounter with Von Hippel's patrol, perhaps."

"Your talents are wasted in the Gestapo, Major Hochstetter," Klink said, his voice rich with gentle ridicule. "You would have done quite well in the Propaganda Ministry. Or better still as a writer of pulp fiction. The escape and the sabotage are no more than coincidence. You have met Sgt. Carter. A more inept and clumsy fool you will never meet."

"Ohhh, I don't know about that." Hochstetter eyed Klink with contempt. "I know of at least one other who comes a close second."

Even as he bristled against the implied insult, Colonel Klink carried on with his argument. He rose from behind his desk and moved to his credenza, where he poured himself a glass of schnapps. The camp Kommandant pointedly did _not_ offer his guest a drink.

"Despite what you might think," Klink said, "I have done a bit of research into underground activities in this region. There have been hundreds of escape attempts from this camp. Only a tiny fraction occurs when there has been underground resistance activity in the Hammelburg area." He took a sip of schnapps before he stepped away from the credenza, waving the glass in the air to emphasize his next point. "As for your patrol, how would I know what happened to them? Maybe they fell into a ravine or a hole in the ground. They're your responsibility, not mine. My prisoner was returned because of a swift and decisive search by soldiers under my command. And as for the American's injuries, Sergeant Schultz reported _seeing_ the injuries being inflicted by men dressed in civilian clothing--citizens from town, no doubt, foolishly playing soldier when they should be tucked safe and warm in their soft, civilian beds. So, there was no encounter with your missing patrol."

"There is one last thing you should know, Klink," Hochstetter said. "I will not give up as easily this time as I have in the past. The captain of the missing patrol, Wilfred Von Hippel, is my cousin. He is family. I will get to the bottom of this mystery, a bottom that I am _certain_ lies here, in this camp!"


	14. Chapter 14

**TITLE:A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR:Meercat

RATING:Strong PG-13

WARNINGS:Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Chapter 14

"Colonel, we have a problem."

Hogan turned in time to see Sergeant Olsen jog up. Around the waiting men, snowflakes fell at a slowly increasing rate, though the ground was slightly too warm to allow any to accumulate. Most of the camp's prisoners had retreated to their individual barracks to wait out the coming storm. Only the Hogan's core group remained outside the infirmary building.

"What is it?" Hogan asked.

Olsen looked around to be certain no Germans were within earshot. Most, like the prisoners, had retreated to covered shelter. The closest was Hans Schultz, who stood on the porch of the Kommandant's office, stamping his feet in an attempt to warm them.

"As soon as I saw the Gestapo get here," Olsen said, "I listened in on the mike we have hidden in the Kommandant's office."

LeBeau sniffed and muttered, "Klink and Hochstetter having a nice, quiet _tête-à-tête_, are they? Sharing war stories over a glass of schnapps?" The French chef shuddered as though he tasted something horrible. "_Pleh_, foul drink. Straight from a sewer. Nothing like fine French Chardonnay."

"Something like that," Olsen said. He turned to squarely face Colonel Hogan. "Sir, Hochstetter's not going to quit this time. The Captain you guys killed was his cousin."

Kinch growled and Newkirk hissed. "Damn it all to 'ell."

"His _cousin_!" LeBeau added. "Since when do worms have family?"

"If Hochstetter finds the barn," Hogan waved them silent, "he might be able to piece together enough clues--clothing, bits and pieces, evidence of someone being ... tortured--to brace up his suspicions against us. We were too rushed last night to clean the place properly. Who knows what the Captain of that patrol had time to write down on a preliminary report or what notes he may have made about the results of his interrogation. Not to mention all the scraps we had to leave lying around. All the Major really needs is one good piece of circumstantial evidence and to hell with what his superiors might say about it. I think finding his cousin dead will qualify."

Newkirk's expression hardened. "We could always take care of the problem, guv'na. Right permanent-like, you might say. Just say the word--a quick snip of the brake line, a little timed present in the trunk, or even a birthday gift mailed to his home address. Maybe one of our special paperweights."

"_Oui._" LeBeau's eyes glowed with particularly strong hatred. A snarl twisted the Frenchman's face into something wild and predatory. "I would gladly take care of the job for you--for _all_ of us."

"Who's to say his replacement will be any better? This is the Gestapo we're talking about, not the Vienna Boys' Choir." Hogan shook his head. "Better the devil we know. No one touches Hochstetter without my express order."

"We have to do _something_," Kinch sighed. "It's just too much of a coincidence for someone to be tortured on the very same night Carter is badly beaten. Klink himself couldn't miss putting the clues together, even with Schultz as a supposed eyewitness to the attack. And if the Major digs too deep, Schultz may give him the names of the men he saw in the woods. It could endanger them _and_ their position in the underground."

"If it weren't for the destroyed staff car beneath that windmill," Hogan said, "we might have been able to bury the bodies and hide the evidence. We just don't have the men, the equipment, or the time to clear away every trace of it." After a long moment of thought, Hogan tapped the back of Olsen's shoulder. "There's really only one thing we _can_ do. Olsen, I hate to send you into the teeth of a snowstorm, but I want you to take a team out tonight. If no one's discovered the place yet, I want you to put the bodies in the barn then destroy it--incendiary, explosive, I don't care how you do it, but I want that barn and everything in it burned to ash, but only _after_ you and your men are back in camp. If the blast and its column of smoke are large enough, Hochstetter will know _something_ happened. He'll come running over here to prove we're responsible. An autopsy of the bodies may prove they died violently, but he'll never know anyone was ever 'questioned' there."

"Colonel." Newkirk rolled his eyes in the direction of the Kommandant's office. "'ere they come."

The alert wasn't necessary. The thump of Hochstetter's boots on the raised wooden porch echoed like an executioner's drumbeat in the otherwise silent, snowy landscape. The German party approached with Major Hochstetter in the lead. Colonel Klink, his entire body tight with anxiety, trotted close on his heels. Behind the two officers, Sergeant Shultz and three rifle-armed guards hurried to catch up.

Major Hochstetter reached the area in front of the infirmary, fully expecting the prisoners to part before him without comment or resistance. He stumbled to a halt, reminded of the Allies' strength as the five prisoners from Barracks Two formed a solid wall between him and the infirmary door.

With an imperial wave of his hand, he commanded, "Out of my way." Hochstetter took another step forward. The human wall did not move. The Gestapo man's dark, beetle eyes narrowed to angry slits. "Let me pass, Hogan. I intend to see precisely how badly injured the suspected saboteur may be."

Hogan and his men stood firm. The Colonel corrected the Major, saying, "The _escaped prisoner_ is in surgery at the moment. The doctor's not letting anyone in."

"He will let _me_ in. I said, get out of my way."

Hogan crossed his arms over his chest and set his feet more firmly. His men mirrored his stance, forming a united front. Behind the German officers, Shultz made faces and mouthed "please do as he says" to the prisoners. The three non-commissioned guards freed the safeties on their rifles and spread out to better cover the gathering.

"One way or another, you will move, Colonel Hogan." Hochstetter smiled. With slow deliberation and no small amount of anticipation, he unsnapped the clamshell holster and withdrew his Luger. A flick of his thumb freed the safety. A pump of the action jacked a live round into the chamber. "Either voluntarily or with help. I think you know which way I would prefer. The choice is yours."

Behind the gathered prisoners, the infirmary door opened. The doctor took a single step outside, only to stop and stare at the brewing confrontation.

Hogan dismissed both Hochstetter and his leveled weapon. He set his entire attention on the doctor.

"How is he?"

The doctor froze, like an animal stunned by the sudden approach of headlights. He stared from face to face, uncertain whether to tough it out and report on his patient's condition or retreat to the safety of the infirmary until a less volatile moment. The five Allied prisoners, five Luftwaffe soldiers, and one Gestapo officer all stared at him with varying expressions. With the exception of the Major in the black uniform, most of them were anxious or concerned. The Gestapo Major's expression was one of angry disappointment.

"In addition to having his back whipped clean of skin with either a dog whip or a riding crop--" the doctor stared at Klink's ever-present swagger stick. Klink stammered denials even as he hid the leather baton behind his back. "--he also numerous broken bones, including the cheekbone, three ribs, and several fingers. I can't say yet whether there has been any damage to his eyesight. A more in-depth examination will have to wait until the swelling goes down. There is extensive deep tissue bruises from being beaten and kicked. I suspect damage to his liver, and there are definite signs of injury to his kidneys. A though-and-through stab wound in his side nicked his intestine. This injury has caused me the greatest concern, even above the injuries to his liver and kidneys. Between the inherent dangers of intestinal damage as well as the rusted, befouled cause of the wound itself, infection will be inescapable."

"What are you saying, doctor?" Klink asked.

"I am saying that it is not a question of _if_ the wound will become infected, but _when_, and _how bad_ it will get before he recovers."

Hochstetter put in, "_If_ he recovers at all."

The doctor nodded. "If he recovers at all."


	15. Chapter 15

**TITLE:A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR:Meercat

RATING:Strong PG-13

WARNINGS:Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

_A/N: My monitor died—had to wait until payday to replace it (when the paycheck only comes once a month, that's sometimes a long time in coming). One week after I replaced the monitor, a thunderstorm blew out my power supply. Again, had to wait until payday. Due to mounting health problems, having to put my dog to sleep, and a changerover in personnel at work that had me working 60 hour weeks, I have had neither the time nor the access to my computer to do any writing. My direct supervisor quit, leaving just me to run the clerical/administrative/personnel sides of a 35-person division in a medical teaching and research university. Anyway, I hope this chapter is worth the wait. _

Chapter 15

"Colonel Klink, I must protest. There are too many people in here. They aren't good for my patient's health."

Though spacious in relation to its curtained-off surgical area, six recovery beds, storage cabinets, side tables, and two potbelly stoves, each with its own full wood box, the Stalag 13 infirmary was not made to hold all that in addition to the doctor, his patient, five prisoners, and six German soldiers. Hogan and his men immediately took up all the space around Andrew Carter's bed, as much to protect him from Hochstetter's attentions as to stand vigil during his recovery.

"I quite understand, _Herr Doktor_," Klink said. "Colonel Hogan, you and your men can stay for a short while but you must follow the doctor instructions to the letter. That includes leaving when he feels it is time. Schultz, you will stay here with Hogan to make certain he obeys the doctor. The rest of you are dismissed." As the three guards disappeared through the door, the Kommandant smiled at the officer in black and waved toward the door. "Major Hochstetter, perhaps you and I can have further conversation on this matter ... in my office?"

Major Wolfgang Hochstetter deliberately turned his back to Klink and glowered at the patient on the only occupied cot. Light from the three bare overhead bulbs clashed with the red glows from the two potbelly stoves and gave him a gaunt, almost bestial visage. The image of the Gestapo officer as a hovering vulture became even more pronounced.

"I have every right to be in this room," Hochstetter replied. "I say send the prisoners back to their barracks right away and let me get on with my interrogation."

Colonel Hogan sputtered, his men seethed, and Sergeant Schultz stared at everyone in confusion. Colonel Klink opened and closed his mouth without making a sound. Only the doctor reacted coherently to the Gestapo officer's words, most likely because he failed to see the rapid hunger in the intelligence officer's eyes. The physician turned away from his patient, removed the stethoscope from his ears, and faced the room.

"There will be no interrogation, Major," the doctor said. "Not today, most likely not anytime within the next _week_. This man isn't sleeping. He is not even unconscious. He is in a coma. His heartbeat is irregular and his blood pressure dangerously low. His pulse is 130--this is dangerously high and is due to low blood volume, especially considering the number of blood transfusions I've already administered. Worst of all, his temperature is rising, a sure sign of infection. He is in no condition to hear you, let alone answer you coherently."

Major Hochstetter waved his hands around in denial. "Bah! He hopes to escape my interrogation by faking unconsciousness. I will wake him up."

"With God as my witness," Hogan squared off against the shorter man, "you will not touch that boy."

Hochstetter and Hogan stared at each other long enough to raise everyone's hackles. The only sound in the room was Andrew Carter's irregular, wheezing breaths.

The tension stretched from seconds into long minutes. The slightest provocation would ignite a vicious battle between the two officers. Hogan had youth, strength, and combat experience on his side. Hochstetter had the advantages of being the captor rather than the captive, along with all of the weapons and authority of that position. Even if Hogan won their physical battle, he and his men would certainly suffer at the hands of Hochstetter's superiors.

Again, the doctor defused the hostilities with three simple, straightforward sentences. "I have enough to do keeping this one man alive. I will have no time to tend any other injuries. By this I mean, there will be no fighting in my infirmary."

Colonel Hogan came back to himself first, at last aware of Kinch's tight hold on his left arm and Newkirk's death grip on his right. Though it galled him to the bone to back down before the black-hearted little weasel, he had his men and his operation to think about.

The doctor diverted the hostilities further by saying, "There is no way, Major, to fake his situation."

Hochstetter did not want to let go of his theory. "Drugs can alter heart beat and blood pressure."

"That is true enough," the doctor admitted, "but they cannot duplicate the physical damage that I, myself, repaired. There is absolutely no chance that his situation is in any way faked. He is in a coma from which he may never awaken."

With a sneer of German superiority mixed with a snarl of disappointment, Hochstetter turned away from the prisoners and said, "We are going back to your office, Klink. I have some phone calls to make."

Hochstetter wheeled on the ball of his right foot and marched through the door. Klink turned toward Hogan for a moment, his expression one of apology and sympathy. When the Major yelled his name from out in the yard, the camp Kommandant tucked his swagger stick under his arm and hurried out, calling, "Coooooming, Maaaaaaajor."

"Colonel Hogan," Schultz said in the silence that followed the officers' withdrawal. "I will step outside for a few minutes to let you visit Carter in peace. I suspect the doctor will not let you all stay through the night, maybe just one or two of you. The rest must return to the barracks."

Seeing the doctor nod, Hogan sighed, let his shoulders relax, and said, "Thanks, Schultz."

Schultz reached out and gently tapped the hump of blankets over Carter's toes, whispered, "Get well, Carter," then led disappeared through the door. A rush of winter-chilled wind swirled through the open door, dropping the room's temperature ten degrees in a matter of seconds. Snowflakes landed on the nearest potbelly and vanished.

The doctor stepped to the supply cabinet on the far side of the room and began inventorying medications and materials used in the surgery. Left alone at his injured friend's bedside, Hogan unfolded a blanket left on the side table and added it to those already covering his injured subordinate. He tucked it as tight around Carter as he could without disturbing either bandages or tubing.

Unable to think of anything more to do, Hogan took off his bomber jacket and draped it across the back of the room's only chair.

No sooner had he settled down on the seat than Kinch hissed, "Damnit, Colonel!"

Hogan leaped back up and stared around for the source of Kinchloe's outrage. "What!"

In answer, Kinch stepped up to his commanding officer and pointed an accusing finger at the red bloodstain on the back of his shirt.

"Why didn't you say anything about this?" Kinch whispered.

"About wha-" Hogan winced. A dull burn reminded him of the shallow bullet graze along his shoulder blade. Dried blood on his back gave him a terrible itch. How had he ignored the sting all this time? "Oh. That."

"Sometimes, Colonel," Kinch shook his head, "you have more guts than common sense."

Hogan eyed the doctor to see if he might be aware of the conversation. Seeing no obvious reaction, he said, "I had more important things on my mind."

Newkirk cut into the conversation, asking, "And if slimy ol' Wolfgang had seen that blood, he'd've known Carter wasn't the only one of us out last night."

"What are you guys worried about? Hochstetter's gone now. Carter's made it through surgery. Someone can slap a band aid on my little boo-boo, and once Olsen and his team are back, we can all relax."

A/N: Does _anyone_ believe it's going to be that simple? Didn't think so.


	16. Chapter 16

**TITLE:A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR:Meercat

RATING:Strong PG-13

WARNINGS:Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Chapter 16

Colonel Robert Hogan stood at the foot of the bunk that hid the entrance to Barracks Two's secret tunnel. He wanted to stand in his usual arms-folded-across-his-chest posture, but the pull of his jacket across his back made it too uncomfortable. Now that he'd been reminded of the injury, it burned and stung out of all proportion to the actual damage.

Judging by their disapproving stares, his decision to put off having it treated until after Olsen and his men left through the exit tunnel wasn't sitting well with either Kinchloe or Newkirk.

"You have everything you need?"

"Yes, sir," Olsen answered for his team, giving the pack in his arms a gentle pat. He, like the three men behind him, were dressed in black, from their knit caps down to their fur-lined boots. Every bit of bare skin, metal, or leather had been blackened to prevent reflection. Olsen and Anderssen carried backpacks of explosives. Furberg and Rivera carried the more powerful weapons and would act as sentries for the other half of the team. "We're all set."

A worry line deepened between Hogan's eyebrows, a sure sign of his deep concern. "And the map? Are you sure you can find the place quickly? It's not too late to send Kinch, LeBeau, or Newkirk with you."

Olsen shared a grin with the other men before turning back to his commanding officer. "Sir, we'll be fine. It's not that far from here, actually, and your directions are spot on. We'll find it without any trouble."

Recognizing the mother hen in him trying to come out, the Colonel visibly withdrew his more obvious concerns. "Fine. Just remember. Set it to blow _after_ you get back to camp. I don't want anything to give Hochstetter the slightest hint that we had anything to do with it."

"We understand, Colonel," The black-haired, fair-faced young non-com said. "Don't worry. We'll get it done and be back in plenty of time."

Hogan slapped Olsen's shoulder, did his best to smile in support, and said, "Off you go, then. Godspeed."

The four men disappeared down into the tunnel. Hogan stood at the open entrance, listening to their progress down the earthen passage until Newkirk deliberately slapped the panel that lowered the bunk back into place.

Kinch pulled a large white first aid kit from beneath the pillow of his own bunk and asked, "_Now_ can I treat your back?"

"Now," Hogan answered as he moved into his own quarters, "yes."

"I don't understand why you put it off this long." Newkirk shook his head even as he accepted Hogan's jacket and folded it inside-out to keep the sticky blood from spreading around the inside lining. It needed to be replaced, but Louis could do that--_after_ Newkirk removed the old liner. Having a tailor who fainted at the first sign of blood could sometimes be an inconvenience. "Don't make no sense a'toll."

"It does when you're an officer," Kinch answered for the Colonel, who was too busy sucking in a pain-laced breath.

The shreds of his shirt pulled painfully at the edges of the shallow wound. A damp towel moistened the cloth and loosened the dried blood. Even so, removing the shirt proved to be a painful chore for Hogan, even with Kinch's help. Newkirk accepted the shirt, balled it up, and tossed it onto the seat of the room's only chair, over the back of which hung the inside-out bomber jacket.

"What's bein' a bleedin' officer got to do with anythin'!" the Englishman asked.

Hogan pulled a deep breath through his nose, held it, then released it, along with his pain, in one hard breath. "It has _everything_ to do with it."

Kinch shook his head and carried the thought one step further, "He can't show weakness in front of his troops."

"That's barmy, that is! He's human, same as we are. Seein' you hurt won't make no nevermind to the rest of us."

"Not to you, maybe," Hogan said, his voice tight with discomfort, "but to some of the others, I _have_ to be larger than life. Only a--_nngh_--superman can hope to lead this operation. They ha--have to see me that way or their fear will take hold, drive them to do something rash ... something that could bring everything down around our heads."

"Well, I suppose I can see it ... from that angle. But still, I can't 'elp not likin' it when you let yourself go like this. That can't be good, either."

Hogan gave him an irritated glower. "I admit it hurts like hell, but it's not like I'm bleeding to death here."

"Maybe not," Kinch said as he used the moistened towel to wipe old blood from around the injury, "but you do run the risk of a serious infection. In these conditions, that can be just as deadly as a bullet wound. There's a chance of that, here. The edges are already red and hot."

"Nag, nag, nag. We've got enough penicillin down in the tunnel to get me through, no problem. Just do what you need to do so I can get back to the infirmary to relieve LeBeau. I don't trust Hochstetter to stay away if he notices I'm not there."

"Hochstetter's not here," Newkirk reported. "I saw him drivin' out the gates while you were briefin' Olsen."

"Not here? Where would he go? He thinks all the answers are in this camp. Why would he leave unle-"

A single, deliberate dab of an alcohol-soaked gauze pad to the wound itself brought Hogan to his feet, his spine arching away from the fire in his own skin. He bit down hard on an instinctive cry of pain.

"Damnit, Sergeant!"

Kinch arched an eyebrow at his superior officer. "I take it I've made my point."

"Make your point without killing me, will ya?" was the closest Robert Hogan would come to admitting anything.

A bare hint of a smile touched Kinchloe's face. "It's just a little alcohol. Don't be such a baby."

Newkirk smirked at the Colonel and said, "An' 'ere you thought you 'ad the men's respect, sir. Just goes to show sometimes, dunnit?"

HH

Sergeant Brian Olsen stared around the barn, its interior dimly lit by a single, shielded flashlight. His mind's eye easily saw the horrors that had happened there less than 24 hours earlier. The three dead German bodies in the yard and the pockmarks of bullet holes in the outer walls testified to the fierceness of the firefight between Hogan's men and the Gestapo. Inside the building, dangling hooks, scraps of cloth, and puddles of blood spoke of a different kind of battle.

Like many others in Stalag 13, Olsen had formed a snap opinion of Andrew Carter, one not initially flattering to the sergeant from Bullfrog, North Dakota. In the months since, seeing Andrew blossom under Hogan's patient encouragement, Olsen's opinion had altered somewhat, but he still sometimes thought of Carter more as a liability than an asset.

After seeing what the sergeant had endured without saying a single word ... Olsen decided then and there, his opinion about Andrew Carter would change again, and he'd never let anyone speak ill against him in future.

When Hogan had placed the task of destroying the barn in his hands, Brian Olsen's first impulse was to panic. He was not the most experienced explosives expert in the camp. Even Carter far outstripped him in ordnance knowledge and experience. Olsen was the camp's "outside man"--his skills were more in line with undercover work. If the cover he was under should just _happen_ to include a pretty fraulein, so much the better.

His second thought was one of pride: Colonel Hogan trusted him with something this important. He would do his commander proud.

Standing there in the barn, he studied the structure with an eye for its destruction. It would not take much to bring the building crashing down. In truth, it was somewhat of a surprise that it still stood at all. Between age, weather, damp and dry rot, and burrowing insects, it would take very little to collapse the walls and bring down the rafters. The trick would be to employ enough incendiary to make certain all evidence of Carter's interrogation was destroyed.

"Sarge!" Corporal Todd Anderssen leaned in the barn door, "car headlights on the road. Sounds like it may be coming this way."

"Damn. Anderssen, Furberg, drag those bodies in here, quick! Rivera, take up position on the other side of the road. Be ready to cover us if we have to make a run for it. I'll set the last charges."

Todd Anderssen and Evan Furberg, their faces covered with kerchiefs, dragged one body each into the barn. Olsen gagged against the ripening smell but continued connecting wires to the explosives, alternating between dynamite and incendiary packets. By the time Corporal Furburg pulled in the final body and Anderssen emptied two cans of kerosene around the room, Olsen had only to set the timer for the job to be finished.

A car engine approached, accompanied by the squeak and creak of a vehicle's suspension as it battled a rough, pot-holed road.

As Olsen and two of his men watched, hidden in the darkness of the old barn, their luck went from bad to worse. A black staff car trundled into the overgrown yard, familiar flags on its front bumpers. The rear passenger door opened, and a single German officer stepped out.

Wolfgang Hochstetter.


	17. Chapter 17

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Chapter 17

Major Hochstetter stood in the moon-dappled yard and, by the glow of his car's headlights, studied the scene before him. He'd known they were onto something important the instant Lieutenant Rupert Schiller spotted fresh tire tracks on an otherwise overgrown path. Even so, he was not prepared to see his cousin's car, crushed beneath an old windmill.

_I must remember to commend the Lieutenant on his observant attention to duty._

Let other officers scramble and claw their way to the top, earning reputations on the backs of junior officers and enlisted men. Let others bow, preen, and primp for attention from their superiors--Wilhelm Klink sprang instantly to mind--even as they plot to rise above them. Let senior officers like Burkhalter and Reinhardt hoard stolen riches or crave power. Wolfgang Hochstetter knew the true path to success--to be the very best at his job, to see what others miss, to dare where others hesitate. To _believe_.

Oh, yes, he believed in the Third Reich. It touched everything that he, personally, felt to be true and right. Hitler's rise was a revelation to him, a blazing light in an otherwise dreary, anger-tainted world of stagnant jobs and social strangulation, where the less worthy were placed ahead of their betters and Prussian pride and heritage were all but snuffed out.

In the Thousand Year Reign, Wolfgang Hochstetter found his calling. Here, he could--and would--make a difference. If he accomplished nothing else in his life, he would stamp out those threats and intrigues spawned by Hogan and his men.

It would begin here.

From the first report of the patrol's disappearance, he'd known that Willie was dead. Wilfred von Hippel was too zealous an officer, too hungry for recognition and power to disappear without hint or warning. Many nights over a delightful dinner prepared by Wilfred's mother, the younger officer had listened to Wolfgang's suspicions concerning Hogan's connection to sabotage activity in the region. Listened and believed. He may well have discovered something in the course of his patrol that required him to be silenced.

Thanks to Lieutenant Schiller's keen eye, they had found Willie's car. His body could not be far away. If all went well, he would find the damning evidence he needed to march Hogan and his merry band before a firing squad. Klink, too, if the Major had any say in the matter. Anyone so inept as to allow such activity beneath his very nose deserved to be shot.

The answers to the sabotage of the depot lay here. Every instinct and life experience screamed it. If that should prove to be the case, should Willie's death be the catalyst to at last bring an end to underground sabotage in the region, perhaps that would be some consolation to Aunt Gilda.

"You," he motioned to his driver, "check that car. See if anyone is inside. Lieutenant Schiller, check the house. You," he said to the last man, "follow me into the barn."

HH

The instant he identified the car's main passenger, Sergeant Brian Olsen muttered, "Hochstetter. Damn it."

Corporal Furberg thumbed off the safety of his rifle. "Do we take him down?"

Olsen's first instinct was to say yes. The Gestapo Major had been a nearly constant thorn in their side for months. On several occasions, he'd come frightfully close to exposing their entire operation. Case in point: his presence in camp the night before had forced Colonel Hogan to send Carter out alone. In a way, Hochstetter was as responsible for Sergeant Carter's injuries as the man who swung the whip.

Even as he opened his mouth to give the order, Olsen remembered Colonel Hogan's words from earlier that day: _"Who's to say his replacement will be any better? This is the Gestapo we're talking about, not the Vienna Boys' Choir. Better the devil we know. No one touches Hochstetter without my express order."_

As usual, the Colonel was right. While the two sides were equal in numbers and firepower, the Americans' element of surprise would not last more than a few seconds into any gun battle. To up the ante, a stray bullet could easily penetrate the rotten wall and detonate an explosive pack before Olsen and his men could fight their way clear of the barn.

Still--if Hochstetter just _happened_ to be in the barn when it blew, how could Olsen or his team be in any way responsible?

"Sarge?" Anderssen whispered. "Do we attack?"

"Not unless we absolutely have to," Olsen answered. "But we can't wait to set a long timer. I'll have to blow it now. You two, out the back way, through that hole. Work your way around to Rivera and be ready to hoof it fast as you can back for camp."

Anderssen asked, "What about you?"

"I'll meet you at the joint in the road. Now go on!"

Pushing their equipment before them, first the shorter, stockier Furberg then the taller, rail-thin Anderssen slithered through the hole. The mismatched pair vanished into the darkness.

Colonel Hogan had ordered them to set the timers to go off after their return to base. Hochstetter's arrival made it impossible. Olsen had no choice. He had to blow the barn right away and pray they could make it back to camp before the Gestapo rolled through the gates. He'd have just enough time to do this right. No chance for a repeat.

Outside, Hochstetter called instructions to his men. He was headed for the barn.

With a final, frantic twist of the screw, Olsen attached the final wire, completing the circuit. A quick glance around the barn's interior showed everything to be ready. With infinite care, Olsen set the timer for two minutes, placed it on the ground at the base of a support post, sprinkled a camouflaging layer of hay over the timer and connections then ran like hell for the hole in the wall.

Olsen's luck held until the moment he cleared the narrow gap and climbed to his feet. He turned to his left and locked eyes with the Gestapo Lieutenant who stood near the back of the dilapidated house. Olsen took one step toward the woods before a burst of machine gun fire drove him back into the barn's shadow. He hunkered down behind a rubbish heap filled mostly with old metal barrels and frantically sought a way out.

Tufts of dirt and grass sprang up around Olsen. Pinpricks of pain from stone, perhaps even fragments of bullets or shrapnel from the metal drums, stung his skin. The Gestapo had him pinned down in the shadow of the barn. He dared not cross the open ground, but considering the amount of explosives he'd laid out, staying put would be just as lethal.

HH

Lieutenant Schiller's cries of alarm caught Wolfgang Hochstetter in the open barn door, his flashlight beam piercing the interior gloom. A miasma of dead and rotten odors burned his nostrils. He had time for a momentary glimpse of the three corpses within the structure before the more immediate threat took precedence.

Knowing in his head that he'd find his cousin murdered was nothing compared to the reality of discovering his body. Raging hot enough to bare his teeth, Hochstetter drew his sidearm, moved to the corner of the barn, and examined the situation.

"Schiller! What is going on?"

"One man, _Herr_ Major! Behind the barn. We have him pinned behind some barrels."

"Excellent! Someone must pay for the death of Captain von Hippel and his patrol. I will start with this man. Capture him alive. I don't care how badly you have to damage him, but I want him _alive_!"

HH

Fire from three different quarters caught the Gestapo man behind the car. He jerked and fell to the ground like a stringless puppet. More gunfire erupted, forcing the remaining three Germans to shift their positions.

Momentarily forgotten, Brian Olsen pushed away from the wall and raced for the relative safety of the forest. Bullets whistled past his ears. Trusting his teammates to cover his retreat, Olsen dug in and ran faster.

HH

His driver went down, forcing both Hochstetter and his guard to duck down behind cover. Judging by the number of weapons, they faced at least three more enemy saboteurs. They'd chosen their positions well, forcing the Germans to take the first available if not necessarily the most defensible cover. Hochstetter himself hunkered down beside the wheel well of his own car, keeping it's bulk between him and the enemy. If he knew what was good for him, Lt. Schiller would make certain the enemy at the back of the barn offered no threat to his superior.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hochstetter saw a black-dressed figure speed away from the barn into the darkness of the woods. Something in the way the enemy agent ran hinted at an almost panicked desperation, something beyond simply escaping a bullet.

Instincts honed by years of violence, usually that which he himself inflicted, screamed a warning. Something in his sense memory brought back the stink of the barn. He recalled something beneath the overall rot and the sickly sweet scent of dead bodies, something dangerously familiar.

_Kerosene._

"They have set the barn to explode! Get away from the buildings! Run!"

The blast caught Hochstetter in mid leap, tossing him over the boot of his car like a straw doll.

HH

Olsen barreled into Rivera before realizing how close he'd come to the sharpshooter's position. Before he could order withdrawal, the barn exploded, swallowing the entire area in a blinding ball of white light. The concussion threw both Olsen and Rivera off their feet. From head to heel, his skin pressed against his skeleton. Every muscle felt the force of the blast. A wave of heat instantly dried their camouflage blacking and the skin underneath.

Cinders rained down all around them, lighting additional spot blazes. Rivera rolled across the ground to smother several smoldering embers where they tried to ignite his clothing. Olsen did the same with his knit cap and two spots on his left leg.

Riding an adrenaline rush, Olsen turned back to study the devastation. The barn was gone, reduced to a splinter-lined, twelve-foot-deep hole in the ground. What little remained burned with a blue-white light. All around the area, spot fires burned as heat and scattered accelerants caught on grass, trash, trees, anything flammable. Unrecognizable fragments of metal peppered the vicinity and glowed red-hot. The blast flattened the remains of the house, setting it and the destroyed windmill ablaze.

Twenty seconds after the initial blast, the gas in von Hippel's demolished car exploded, adding to the din.

Ears roaring with white noise, Sergeant Olsen barely noted when Anderssen and Furberg scooped himself and Rivera to their feet and moved deeper into the forest.

"Hochstetter!" Olsen coughed smoke and dust from his lungs. "Did anyone see what happened to him? Is he still alive?"

"Can't say, sir," Furberg reported, his voice a distant burr through the white noise, barely recognizable, "but I saw at least one of them climbing to his feet. Can't tell if it's the Major or not."

"If Hochstetter's down," Rivera said, "we have a little time. If he's not, he'll head straight for Stalag 13."

"I managed to do a bit of damage to Hochstetter's car, including taking out the right rear tire. That might give us a little time. Not a lot, but some." Anderssen settled his supplies more firmly on his back. Grinning, he asked, "You guys ready for a moonlight run?"

"Like we have a choice?" Olsen sniped. "Come on!"

_A/N: I'd originally intended to end it at the point where Olsen "ran like hell for the hole in the wall." Would you have killed me? Yep, thought so... but then, is this place any better? hee_


	18. Chapter 18

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

_A/N: To borrow a quote from my favorite Sawyer Brown song: "And the race is on..."_

Chapter 18

Robert Hogan smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the blanket. His hands tingled, reddened from ceaseless hours spent wringing out and applying ice-chilled rags to every unbandaged bit of Carter's skin he could find. Despite antibiotics and cold compresses, Andrew Carter's fever continued to climb. More than once, Dr. Freiling threatened to have him removed to the hospital despite the risk such movement entailed. Only Klink's reminder of the worsening weather prevented the doctor from doing precisely that.

_You're so still, Carter,_ Hogan thought to his unconscious friend. _That just isn't natural. You NEVER stop moving. You're always wiggling, even in your sleep. Drives Newkirk nuts, the way you're always making the bunk frame jerk and twitch. Won't you wake up for me, Andrew? Just for a second? Let me know you're still with us? Do these compresses feel good against your skin because of the fever or bad because they're so cold? Let me know, okay? I'll do anything you want if you'll just wake up for me._

"Any change?"

Absorbed in rote movements and internal monologue, Colonel Hogan did not hear the door open or notice the cold draft. Clad in his heavy winter coat, Colonel Klink paused at the foot of the bed to pull off his gloves and look down at its comatose occupant. Behind him, Sergeant Schultz took up a watch station close to one of the stoves.

Hogan noted the shadows beneath Klink's eyes and the deep lines of worry in each outer corner.

_Looks like our beloved Kommandant isn't sleeping any better than the rest of us tonight._

"No, sir. No change," Hogan answered.

To remain awake and busy if nothing else, Hogan removed the rolled towel from Carter's throat, dipped it in the chilled water, wrung it out, and tucked it back in place. A sharp, cold burn replaced the prickly numbness in his fingers.

A distant rumble roused him from the mechanical movement. Klink sighed. His shoulders rose and fell in a weary shrug.

"Oh, no. Not again."

Hogan blinked exhaustion from his eyes as Klink opened the door of the infirmary. Over his shoulder, Hogan saw a prematurely light horizon. Klink closed the door and turned back toward the bed. A brief swirl of chilled air laden with snowflakes moved around the room until the output of the stoves drove it away.

"At least I can tell Major Hochsetter that beyond any doubt, you are not responsible for _this_ disaster."

"Beyond any doubt, sir," Hogan answered, even as he surreptitiously studied his watch.

_The blast is way too early. They couldn't possibly be back yet. Something's gone wrong._

HH

The gentle brush of a snowflake against his closed eyelid roused Wolfgang Hochstetter. He lay there for a long moment, idly contemplating the pretty sight above him as first one fat flake then a dozen then more drifted down from the heavens. Their cold comforted, a perfect match for the chill in his heart.

"Major Hochstetter! Sir, please answer me."

_The barn. Explosion._

"Schiller?"

Lieutenant Rupert Schiller knelt at Hochstetter's side. A layer of soot and blood failed to hide a wicked blister on his right cheek the size of a thumbprint. His uniform, particularly the right side of his black overcoat, showed close proximity to the heat of the blast. A particularly nasty burn marred the outer edge of the junior officer's right hand.

"Sir, are you hurt?"

"Stunned only, I think. Demmacht? Zimmer?"

"Both dead, sir."

Hochstetter held out his right arm, palm open. "Help me up."

Becoming vertical and staying that way proved a bit of a challenge. Waves of vertigo flowed over him, making it difficult to stand on his own. His eyes insisted on seeing three or more of every item. Aches and twitches in every joint protested any sort of movement. A particularly painful bruise on his left thigh--from forced impact with the hood of his car--kept the Major from placing his full weight on that leg. It did his pride no good having to rely on a subordinate in order to stay upright, but Hochstetter did so until he could lean against the fender of his car instead. Noting that the car sat lower than usual, he glanced down at the flat tire.

"Replace this tire, quick as you can, Schiller." Hochstetter worked his way to the other end of the car, leaving the junior officer room to work. "The men who did this must not escape me."

"Right away, Major."

While Schiller toiled away to replace the bullet-flattened tire, Major Hochstetter muttered to the enemy he envisioned in his mind. "This is the opportunity I have been waiting for. By car, I can reach the camp before you or your men have a chance to re-enter it by whatever diabolical means you may use to come and go undetected." Hochstetter waved a fist in the air and shouted, "Hogan, I have you now!"

"The tire is replaced, Major Hochstetter," Schiller called.

The Major slid into the back seat an instant before Schiller took the wheel. "Take me to Stalag 13, quick as you can."

HH

The snowstorm, having held off longer than anyone would have anticipated, moved back into the Hammelburg area some ten minutes after the barn exploded.

Four figures, their unrelenting black clothing rimmed with white frost, paused in the blackness beneath a spreading beech tree. In scattered clearings around them, pristine snow lay in ever-rising humps. Overhead, dense clouds blotted out any trace of moonlight, killing any chance they'd be spotted even as it concealed the ground from their eyes.

"Our luck's changing, boys," Evan Furberg said to his three teammates. His breath fogged the air in front of his face. "The trees cut down the wind and snow for us but piles it up for old Wolfgang and his car. Here's hoping it slows him up a bit."

"Can't rely on luck," Olsen rasped, "just fast feet and a sure sense of direction. In other words, stop talking and start running!"

HH

The black staff car, its distinctive fender flags frayed, frazzled and, in one case, half-burned away, battled wind, pot holes, and patches of ice. On three separate occasions, they were saved from a long night spent in a ditch by Schiller's skillful handling of the wheel. In the back seat, Hochstetter huddled beneath a lap throw and braced himself against the unpredictable wobbles and jumps. He did not protest the rough ride--if it got him to Stalag 13 before Hogan and his men, he would ride through the storm backwards on a donkey. Naked.

"Checkpoint ahead, Major."

Schiller pulled to a stop at the barricade and waited. And waited. Snowflakes fell faster, knocked from the front windshield by constantly moving wiper blades. A pleasant, yellow-orange light shone in the hut window. A figure moved around inside but no one appeared in the doorway. A tap of the horn drew no response.

Determined to rouse the guards' attention, Schiller lay on the horn until the unrelenting sound pulled the reluctant sentry from his stove-warmed shelter. The Gestapo Lieutenant didn't bother to put the car in park, leaving it to idle with his foot on the brake. The big black vehicle shuddered in place, its front grill nudging the reinforced wooden bar as though a racehorse rearing to escape onto the track.

Hochstetter rolled down the rear window and yelled toward the slowly moving guard. "Will you hurry up? I must get through!"

"Papers."

Hochstetter shoved his wringled, dog-eared identity and travel credentials from the inside pocket of his coat. A black-edged hole poked all the way through the trifolded document, a reminder of his brush with death back at the barn.

"I must verify these," the guard said. "Wait here."

"No, wait, I-"

The man vanished back into the hut before Hochstetter could protest. By the time the sentry appeared again, this time looking slightly more awake and respectful, the Gestapo Major had built up quite a head of steam. It took every ounce of his willpower to hold back the blistering tirade. He would save his ire for Colonel Hogan.

He shoved the papers back into his pocket, slapped the back of the driver's seat, and shouted, "Drive on!"

HH

The impact of a body against the ground sounded unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent night.

"Ow. Ow ow ow damnit _OW_!"

Sergeant Brian Olsen staggered back a dozen feet until he reached his downed man. Todd Anderssen lay sprawled on the icy ground, his left boot caught in the branches of a downed tree limb. Five feet away, Evan Furberg leaned against a rock and sucked in desperately needed air. Bringing up the rear, Tony Rivera lurched to a stop, barely avoiding the same snow-submerged obstacle that had brought down his teammate.

"Todd?" Olsen knelt in the snow and touched Anderssen's shoulder. "Talk to me. How bad is it?"

"I twisted my ankle."

"Twisted, not broken?" At Anderssen's nod, Olsen reached out and snapped away the rotting limb. "We can't stop now. On your feet, soldier, keep going. We're almost there."

HH

In the dim glow of a single bare, low-watt bulb, the last in a line of similar lights, Ivan Kinchloe set the bucket of steaming hot water and a stack of thick towels on the small bench at the base of the tunnel entrance. Peter Newkirk did the same on the opposite bench, even as Louis LeBeau hung fresh uniforms for the four men from a metal pole braced between two of the support rafters.

"Well, that's all we can do," Kinch sighed. "The rest is up to Olsen, Anderssen, Rivera, and Furberg."

"The blast went off far ahead of schedule." LeBeau sighed and shook his head. "The _Colonél_ will not be pleased."

"We don't know what happened out there," Kinch said. "We don't know what made them set off the charges."

"Yeah, yeah, Kinch, we know." Newkirk set a cigarette to his lips and lit the end. After a long drag on the precious tobacco, he went on, "An' as the Colonel 'imself might say, 'speculatin' about it won't do anyone any good.' Can't help it though, can we? 's just human nature."

"Either they get back before Hochstetter or Klink calls an inspection or they don't. Let's get topside again, in case something happens."

HH

Major Wolfgang Hochstetter rubbed at the frost that lined the right rear window in a vain attempt to sight a familiar landmark. "Schiller. How far are we from the camp?"

In the glow of their headlights, Lieutenant Schiller studied a milepost as it flashed momentarily into view. "Five minutes, Major Hochstetter."

Hochstetter leaned back in his seat and jacked a round into his Luger. "Make it three."

HH

Sergeant Hans Schultz entered Barracks 2, closing the door quickly to hold in the little warmth produced by the pot-bellied stove in the corner. A flick of a switch turned on the room's only overhead light. With an exaggerated tiptoe walk that sounded louder on the creaky old boards than normal steps, the guard moved over to a particular bunk and poked its blanket-covered lump with a pudgy finger.

"LeBeau. Come, little one, you must wake up now."

An inarticulate mumble came from the bulge beneath the army-drab cover. Schultz poked again, this time with two fingers hard enough to move the body.

"LeBeau. It is time for you to relieve Colonel Hogan."

Someone moved on a nearby bunk. "Hmm? Szzzhulz, zzzat'yew?"

"Yes, Newkirk. It is me. I must wake Corporal LeBeau. Colonel Hogan is very tired and needs to rest. Dr. Freiling says that Hogan has fallen asleep in the chair. He sends me to get one of you to take his place beside Carter in the infirmary."

Mention of their injured teammate's name triggered everyone in the room. Bodies rolled and heads rose on almost every bunk. Four lumps, however, remained unmoving.

Blinking against light from the single bulb that dangled from the ceiling, Kinch beat the others to ask their common question out loud, "How is he, Schultz? How's Carter doing?"

"As far as I can tell, he is the same," Schultz reported. Seeing the prisoners slump in dejection, he said, "I am sorry that I could not bring better news. At least he is no worse, yes?"

"Yes, Schultz. Thanks anyway."

LeBeau untangled himself from his blanket and swung his feet over the edge. A booted toe searched for and found a rung in the bunk's ladder.

"Why are you still in your clothes?" Schultz asked, eying LeBeau's attire with mounting dismay. "You are wearing a coat? Boots, too? Cockroach, you aren't up to anything ... funny ... are you?"

"No, Schultz. It's cold tonight. I'm warmer dressed this way. Now come on, I want to speak a moment with the _Colonél_ before he comes back here to sleep."

Louis held the door open, letting the big German exit ahead of him. In the moments that Schultz's back was to them, LeBeau looked first at Olsen's padded bunk then at Kinchloe. All around the room, men shared worried glances. A vague shrug from Kinch told LeBeau to proceed as best he could. They could do little else.

Schultz escorted the Frenchman across the compound. Even as LeBeau laid his hand on the infirmary building's door latch, activity at the camp gates drew his attention. A searchlight beam from one of the guard towers pinpointed a black staff car as it rolled up to the fenced gates.

LeBeau opened the infirmary door wide enough to admit his head and called inside, "_Mon Colonél_, someone is here. I think it's Gestapo."

Hogan stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Together, with Schultz standing nearby, they watched the car pass through the checkpoint at the gate. Still spotlighted from the guard tower, the car rolled to a stop in front of Kommandant Klink's office. A single figure dressed in black emerged from the driver's side rear door. The new arrival limped up to the door and banged on the portal, demanding entry.

"It's Hochstetter alright," Hogan said. "Did you notice the way he was limping? Something's definitely happened to him tonight."

"His uniform was a mess, as well." Louis stamped his feet and blew into his hands to ward off the cold. He leaned in close enough to whisper, "Olsen's not back yet. This is bad. Very bad."

"Hochstetter's going to demand a roll call. Spread the word as you fall into formation. We need to stall as long as we can."

HH

Major Hochstetter slammed his fist against the closed door for the third time. He raised his fist to make a fourth attempt and almost hit Wilhelm Klink square on the nose. Only the Kommandant's frantic sidestep saved him from a painful blow to the face.

Colonel Klink squinted against the brightness of the spotlight that remained focused on the black staff car. "Major Hochstetter, what on earth are you doing here at this time of night?"

"Call out your guards, Klink. I want a special roll call."

"Now? But--Major, it's after midnight!" Klink blinked and stared at Hochstetter's scorched, ripped, and filthy uniform. "Your clothes--what has happened?"

"Call the roll, Klink. Now!"

Klink paused a moment, internally debating his options. Seeing none other than to do as the Gestapo requested, Klink reached back inside the door, took his coat off its hook, and followed Hochstetter into the prison yard.

"_Schuuuuultz!_"

Sergeant Schultz huffed over to them from the infirmary. "I am here, _Herr Kommandant._"

Hochstetter watched as Hogan and another of his men, the little French rat LeBeau, trailed along in the fat Sergeant's shadow.

"Schultz," Klink said, "rouse the guards for an unscheduled roll call."

"_Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!_" Schultz motioned to the appropriate men before he disappeared into Barracks Two, shouting, "Roll call! Everybody out! _Raus!_"

Hochstetter watched Hogan carefully as the senior POW slinked across the grounds to assume his customary spot in line. The French rat skittered further down the line, weaving in and out and elbowing his way between larger men.

"What's going on, Kommandant?" Hogan asked as he fell into place with his barracks mates. "Little late for a party, isn't it?"

"You look nervous, Colonel Hogan," Hochstetter gloated. "Are you by chance worried about something?"

"Now why on earth would I be worried about anything, Major Hochstetter?" Hogan glanced left and right, as though looking for a particular face in the growing crowd of poorly clad prisoners. "Other than the fact that one of my men is lying in the infirmary, badly injured, and the rest of them have been yanked from their nice, cold beds to stand in the freezing night air. No, nothing to worry about, nothing at all."

"Schultz," Klink, clad in his winter coat over red woolen pajamas, yawned into the back of his hand, "proceed with roll call."

Hochstetter never took his eyes off Hogan as the fat Sergeant moved down the line, counting prisoners and accepting results from the other barracks guards. The American was a hard one to read, but Hochstetter felt sure he saw worry in the way Hogan stood stiff-backed, arms locked across his chest, feet braced wide apart. The Major hardly noticed the way the prisoners shuffled and shifted, insulting the guards and miscounting aloud in order to foul up the tally.

Even with catcalls and diversions, Schultz soon called the report, "_Herr Kommandant_, including Sergeant Carter who is still in the infirmary, all prisoners are present and accounted for!"

"You are mistaken," Hochstetter insisted, his eyes never leaving Hogan's position at the end of Barracks Two's formation. Was that an expression of surprise on the American officer's face? Surprise at what? "Count again."

Schultz blinked and said, "Major?"

"You heard me. Count again!"

Sergeant Schultz turned to Klink, hoping for a reprieve. Instead, the Kommandant motioned for him to do as the Gestapo officer commanded. Schultz heaved a sigh strong enough to blow away the snowflakes in front of his face and proceeded to count the prisoners again.

"All present and accounted for."

"That cannot be!" Hochstetter protested. "There should be four men missing! There _must_ be four men missing!"

"Obviously, Major Hochstetter," Klink said, "there is not. _Now_ can I send these men back to their barracks? Most of them are not dressed for this cold. I know for a fact that _I_ am not!"

The Gestapo officer stormed up to Hogan and waved a fist beneath his nose. The effect lost some of its energy due to his unsteady, limping gait.

"How did you do it? How could you possibly have pulled off this sabotage?"

"Obviously," Hogan answered, "we _didn't_."

"You did. I know it. Here, in the pit of my stomach. I feel it!"

With false solicitude, Hogan suggested, "Maybe you ate something that didn't agree with you. That happens sometimes."

A whisper from the crowd of prisoners muttered in a decidedly French accent, "Especially with _German_ food."

"Major Hochstetter," Klink said, "you have asked for a special roll call. I have done so. All prisoners are present and accounted for. Now please, I must insist that you either produce evidence to support your theories or I will dismiss the prisoners back to their barracks."

"You are a fool, Klink!"

"Perhaps you are right," Klink replied with a touch of unaccustomed steel in his voice, "but at the moment, I am a half-frozen fool who intends to return to the warmth of his quarters the instant this assembly is _DISSSSS-MISSED!_"

Hochstetter could only stand and watch as the prisoners broke rank and returned to their individual barracks. As Hogan slapped the back of a dark-haired young man with Sergeant's stripes on his jacket sleeve and vanished into Barracks 2, he offered the stunned Major a two-fingered salute before pointedly closing the door.

"BAH!"


	19. Chapter 19

**TITLE: A SPOT OF TROUBLE**

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, some torture, drama, angst

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Patti and Marg for their wonderful beta of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Chapter 19

_Six days._ Hogan stepped through the door of Barracks Two, into the early morning sunshine, and stared across the snow-studded, muddy-earthed prison yard, seeing nothing but his own inner visions of worry and unease. _It's been six days. There should be some sign of improvement. Hell, there should be some sign of ANY change by now, uphill or down. Carter, why won't your fever break? Why won't you wake up? _

A slamming door brought Hogan's attention to the building on the other side of the compound. Wolfgang Hochstetter stepped around a waiting staff car, ignoring the door being held open for him by a lowly Gestapo aide. Unmindful of the mud that sullied the otherwise pristine polish of his black leather boots, he strode across the bare yard that separated Kommandant Klink's office from Barracks Two. Anger and resentment poured from him in visible pulses.

_Hochstetter. Aw hell, here we go again._

Thanks to Olsen's fast thinking and even faster feet, their latest mission was a success and all suspicion diverted. Refusing to give up his suspicions against Hogan, Major Hochstetter remained in camp, performing dozens of bed checks and inspections, prowling the grounds both inside and outside the fence, searching for anything that he could warp to support his theory. Hogan and his men made certain he came up empty every time. Zealous to the point of irrationality, he made everyone's life a living hell, both prisoners and camp personnel alike.

"Good morning, Colonel Hogan. I trust you slept well?"

"Well enough, thank you for asking," Hogan said. "You?"

With a bare-toothed sneer, the Gestapo Major stepped well into Hogan's personal space until their jacket buttons clicked against each other. This close, the smell of last night's sauerkraut and schnapps on Hochstetter's breath stung the American's eyes and tickled his nose. Hogan, being Hogan, made no effort to hide his disgust, fanning the air in front of his face.

Before Hogan could make his planned comment regarding the benefits of breath mints, Hochstetter growled, "You may _think_ that you have won this little war of ours, Hogan, but you are wrong. I have been ordered away from this investigation ... for the moment. Klink's doing, no doubt. I will remember that. And I will remember what you and your operation has done to my family and me. What was once a matter only of pride and defense of my country is now something quite personal. You will be hearing from me again. This I promise you."

"I look forward to any letter you'd like to send me," Hogan answered with overplayed delight. "A phone call or three would be nice, too. We get so little contact here with the outside world. We're prisoners, you know."

Hochstetter's trembling hand hovered over his holstered Luger. A gutteral noise, like the snarl of an enraged wolverine, rose from the black-uniformed German. The urge to respond to Hogan's cheek with deadly force crackled the air between them. For the briefest instant, Hogan saw black insanity in the depth of the Major's eyes.

Hochstetter reined in his temper and widened the distance between them with visible effort.

"You would like for me to respond to your taunts, wouldn't you? No, Hogan. There will be another time and place, both of my choosing. A time of long talks and informative answers. And no small amount of pain ... for you."

Hogan held down a shiver of premonition by sheer effort of will. He'd ignored similar threats many times in the past, sometimes given by enemies far more intimidating that Wolfgang Hochstetter. This warning held a different flavor, a bitter taste of things to come.

This threat, this promise, Hochstetter would keep.

"We'll see, Major," Hogan replied, challenge given and accepted. "We'll see."

After a final, long staring contest, Hochstetter wheeled on one foot and stomped over to the waiting staff car. He vanished into the interior of the back seat, yelling at his unfortunate aide to hurry up and drive.

"_Mon Colonél_, are you alright?"

Hogan glanced back over his shoulder, not surprised to see Ivan Kinchloe and Louis LeBeau standing close enough to come to his aid had things with the Gestapo gone sour. The two men looked haggard and worn from worry and long hours spent at their unconscious friend's bedside. Hogan could only imagine how bad he, himself, looked. Hochstetter's actions around the camp over the previous six days had only increased the tension and worsened their fatigue.

"I'm fine, LeBeau."

"Hochstetter--_Brrrrr!_" LeBeau gave an inflated shiver that had nothing whatsoever to do with the wintry weather. "I have never seen him so angry before."

"For minute there," Hogan admitted, "I wondered if I'd pushed him a little too far."

"He won't forget this, Colonel," Kinch said. "Something in his eyes..."

"No doubt about it," Hogan sighed. "Before this war is over, we'll see Wolfgang Hochstetter again."

"Look over there." LeBeau waggled an eyebrow toward the Kommandant's office. "The Bald Eagle is coming this way."

Kommandant Wilhelm Klink met Colonel Hogan at the mid-point in the yard between their separate quarters. They offered one another a brief exchange of lazy salutes then turned as one and watched the car roll toward the gates.

"I understand we have you to thank for getting rid of the Black Menace. The prisoners and I thank you, Kommandant," Hogan said; around the yard, a dozen prisoners paused in their work carrying wood or gathering trash to wave and shout raucous goodbyes after the departing staff car, "from the bottom of our hearts."

"I didn't do it for you, Hogan, or your men. I did it for _me_." Klink jabbed at his own chest with a stiff-fingered hand. "Major Hochstetter's prowlings disrupted the efficiency and security of this camp. I had no choice but to ask General Burkhalter to request intervention by the Major's superiors."

"However it came about, sir, we still thank you."

The senior POW snapped his heels together, stiffened his stance, and offered Klink a regulation perfect salute. The Kommandant of Stalag 13 blinked in surprise--very rarely did Colonel Robert Hogan offer him true respect.

Thrown off-balance by the unexpected display, he returned the salute and stammered, "Well ... Hogan, I ... you're welcome."

"Colonel 'ogan!"

Corporal Peter Newkirk trotted over from the direction of the infirmary building. The Englishman had the current bedside vigil.

"Wilson's over in the infirmary," Newkirk jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the building in question, "asks to see you straightaway."

Hogan tensed. Beside him, LeBeau and Kinch stiffened, as well. Thoughts of all the things that might be wrong crowded Hochstetter's threats from his mind.

"Carter?"

"Dunno, sir." Newkirk, hands stuffed into pants pockets, shrugged. "He looks the same to me, but what do _I_ know?"

Hogan hurried over to the infirmary and threw open the door. He spared Klink no further attention, and was unaware when the camp Kommandant, already aware of the news, failed to follow them, returning instead to his office.

"I talked with the doctor just before he left," Sergeant Wilson reported the instant Hogan charged into the building, with Newkirk, Kinch, and LeBeau hard on his heels. "With the antibiotics from London's last drop added to the camp's supply and barring any more unforeseen complications, I think he'll be okay."

Around the six-bed infirmary with its single filled cot, the heroes voiced prayers of thanksgiving. Haggard, unkept, and hollow-eyed with fatigue, Hogan sat down on the only chair, let his chin fall to his chest, and whispered his own heartfelt, "Thank God."

Hogan straightened the blanket around his soldier once more and settled into the creaky chair to watch over his sleep.

"His fever broke last night," Wilson continued. "The doc's guardedly hopeful that we've beaten back the infections. It'll take at least a month for his back to heal enough for him to feel comfortable lying on it, and those broken ribs will make any movement painful for quite some time. Best I can tell, there's no permanent damage to either his eyesight or his hearing. I'll have to wait until he's awake and coherent to know for certain. With the reduction of the swelling, the doctor says his facial bones are intact, though he may lose a tooth or two, and there are no broken bones other than the ribs and one finger."

Wilson gathered his coat, offered them all a positive smile, and left. No sooner had LeBeau closed the door behind him than a small sound from the infirmary cot caught everyone's attention.

Hogan stared long and hard until he was rewarded by the sight of Carter's still-swollen eyes slowly opening.

"Easy does it, Sergeant. You're safe now."

Andrew Carter tried several times to speak, but no sound emerged. Hogan reached over his shoulder and accepted the glass of water Kinch held ready. With great care, the camp's senior officer raised Carter's head just enough to tip the glass against his lips and allow a trickle of liquid to pass through.

It took a good fifteen minutes and several rest breaks to empty the glass. By the end of it, Carter was soothed but visibly exhausted.

"There." Hogan handed the glass back to Kinchloe. "Better?"

"_Nnngh._" The noise sounded positive enough, so Hogan smiled and straightened the covers around his injured soldier. "Go to sleep, Sergeant. You did good."

Carter blinked blurrily, as though he hadn't the strength to keep his eyes open. "G'd?"

"Yes, Carter. Very good. Now sleep. You've earned your rest, soldier."

"Mmm. Sl'p. 'kay."

With no trail for Hochstetter to follow, the Allied operation buried beneath Stalag 13 was safe. Tomorrow would require another mission, another risk, but for now, his men were in camp and as safe as they could be given the circumstances.

For Hogan, that was enough.

END


End file.
